| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Display using:
|
|
The Exodus
Posted: 06 Mar 2006 05:40 PM |
| Mirghul and Brandibuck are abuzz with the news that a contingent of about sixty Midoran priests passed through and headed to Ladriel. Natana reports that they headed north along the shoreline and vanished into the Blood Marshes. All will confirm that they identified themselves as the priests who had been stationed recently at Paws, and they say that they have willingly left Midor to establish a new faith elsewhere. |
|
|
  |
|
|
Wheels within Wheels
Posted: 06 Mar 2006 05:44 PM |
It was a move inspired by the recent activities of the Elves of Ferein, and it seemed to have worked. Once they'd reached the Blood Marshes, the group had dissipated, scattering in too many directions to track. In the coming days, a handful would be seen in the Kobai; another in Port Royale and Buckshire; and a few more in Tanglewood. Always taking care to be conspicuous, so as to spread the belief that they had relocated to the north.
Leaving Jerec free to act at their real new locale.
It was the dawn of a new Midoran faith, a covenant to replace the one that was not honoured. The world had seen the might of Midor and forgotten that, for the past thousand years, the heart and soul of the people had ruled the White City without interference from their god.
It was time to remind them. |
|
|
|
|
|
The Search
Posted: 09 Mar 2006 05:10 PM |
They walk the northern lands dressed in humble brown robes, with nothing to identify them as the Midoran priests they once were. In every inn, at every camp, in every tavern, they seek those who have fled Midor—former paladins, former priests, former citizens.
To the Midoran refugees that they meet, they will take them aside and speak to them quietly of the restoration of the old Midoran way: the ways of justice, law and humanity. An invitation is extended to these their fellow displaced Midorans.
Otherwise, they keep to themselves, and most who see them assume they are quiet monks from Asashi. |
|
|
|
|
|
Red Sky
Posted: 11 Mar 2006 04:33 AM |
*At dawn today the sky was filled with an unusual slash of colour... a billowing and vibrant red cloud, at times resembling vapour, at times resembling dust*
*The red cloud originated from the heart of Mirghul and soared south-east... in flight it looked like a gash in the sky; as if the very sky was bleeding*
*For one day and one night it circled, high in the sky...*
*And then it fell...*
*And as it fell upon the Great Plains, where a battle had once been fought some months ago, the cloud resolved itself to be millions upon millions of scarlet poppies*
*Those walking down the road that leads out of Mirghul onto the Great Plains might notice a sight that seems half-illusory... a phantasm of a great monument that fades in and out of sight, its only anchor to the world a man who prays, unmoving, before it*
*Sometimes two other figures fade into view on either side of the man: a white unicorn and a white angel... but perhaps they, too, are imaginary*
((Obviously I can't have Jerec spawned in there 24/7 but he's there. He cannot be harmed. Those who try will only recall an angel with a sword striking the blow harmlessly aside or countering the spell, before they are knocked unconscious and left to wonder whether they hallucinated it.)) |
|
|
|
|
|
Red Sky
Posted: 13 Mar 2006 07:57 AM |
That hadn’t been there before. She was sure.
Natalyia found herself at a standstill, her eyes sweeping slowly around the fields, taking in the amazing sight.
All around, autumnal colors rested, and swirled. Deep oranges and reds filled her vison, from a myriad of sources. Leaves swirled, spiraling and playing in the dancing winds. Strewn all across the ground of the plains with poppies, the piercing red almost contrasting the rustic reds of the trees and leaves, and setting a striking background for…
…whatever exactly was going on.
She blinked, and looked around again.
On her left, shaded behind a mighty cherry tree were three plain tents, and three figures garbed in simple robes holding candles. Ahead of her, the road continued, rolling onwards into Mirghul with a large crowd in attendance; and to her right was a bizarre memorial, with a human male on his knees, meditating in front of it.
It was, apparently, carved out of stone- perhaps marble, but likely stone, she decided. Four columns, apparently slightly aged- not newly carved- market out the four corners of a square. Around them ran strands of Ivy, the leaves the same dull red tones as on the trees around. In the centre was a cenotaph. In front of it was a plain stone, with a simple cross erected in the centre. Upon the stone, apparently, were carved a line or two of verse. On the stone around the cenotaph were a pair of books and a small few burning candles, the flames dancing with the wind.
Strewn all around the monument were more poppies and fallen leaves, which the same winds whipped up into spirals, occasionally sending a burst skywards, circling around before gently falling to the ground again as the gust faded.
Finally, her legs decided to listen. She took a step forward, the look of awe on her face only faintly concealed as she examined the scene in front of her. The monument wasn’t real, whatever it was. It was the ghost of a memorial, she decided. Or perhaps it had never been real. Perhaps the man was willing it into existence with nothing more than faith. Perhaps they were looking at a figment of his imagination, forced into reality by the sheer force of his grief. Perhaps it was an illusion. Perhaps…
“Scuse me, guv. What’s the story?”
Her eyes darted to the nearest one of the robed figures, who turned to face her, a slightly quizzical look on his face. He looked tired, perhaps slightly haggard. She wasn’t sure if he’d reply. Then he smiled to her, his blue eyes locking with hers. A polite voice, she noted. Open, welcoming, and friendly.
“Good afternoon, my lady.”
It was disarming, in a sense. Whatever this was, it evidently wasn’t an immediate threat- she supposed that the large horde who had previously been gathered, some noted travelers and heroes- attested to that more than the voice, but the friendly tones were welcome in their own way.
“Afternoon, guv. If’n I migh’ ask… does you know wha’ the deal is with tha’?”
She moved her head backwards, nodding in the direction of the monument. The reply, in the same pleasant tone, brought a confused frown to her face.
“In truth, we are not entirely sure, ourselves.”
Nodding slowly, she hurried to explain what must have struck the man as a rather bizarre and uninvited question.
“… don’ remember it bein’ ‘ere, is all. Oh… who’s meditatin’?”
A sheepish, apologetic look flooded over her features. It must be awful to be put on the spot like that. She decided, at that moment, that she asked altogether too many questions. Whether she’d ever be able to do anything about it, she wasn’t sure- though, evidently, it didn’t matter. By the time she’d reached that conclusion, she realized that Reginald was finishing his explanation, and tilted her head as she listened.
“We are here because the good Father went missing one day, and now we watch over him. That is Father Duvados.”
Frowning, Natalyia tilted her head, her cockney accent chirping to itself.
“Father… Duvados? Sure I’ve ‘eard tha’ somewhere.”
She noticed Dorian, who nodded before offering a word or two of confirmation.
“It does sound familiar.”
A nod. “Go’ a given name?”
“Father Jerec Duvados.”
Him! Now, that was a name she knew. Jim had mentioned him during one of their conversations in the lodge. She snapped her fingers, and found herself exclaiming:
“Cor! Snap. Knew I’d ‘eard it before.”
Both Macha and Dorian looked to her, and she found herself blushing very faintly as she explained herself.
“Some ‘ero who spen’ the las’ decade or so runnin' 'round Mirghul. Savin' types from stuff, an' the like. ... I think.”
She barely noted the nods and understanding replies from Macha and Dorian, straining to remember more detail from Jim’s accounts of Jerec’s deeds… though more detail proved lacking. Perhaps he hadn’t said more. It didn’t matter, for now- she knew who the man was, now- and he wasn’t going to be involved in something underhand. What he was involved in, however, was a far more complex question entirely. Her eyes darted to the ethereal seeming monument again.
“He has been assigned to the Midoran Survey Teams for some years, yes. That is what I have heard.”
She blinked, looking to the robed figure. It took her a moment to digest the information, then she nodded. That fitted. She nodded, smiling brightly to the man.
“Sounded like a pretty solid fellow, from wha’ I ‘eard.”
As soon as she finished, Dorian interjected with a question, and she tilted her head as she found her eyes drifting between him and the robed figure. Idly, she run her hands down her front, smoothing her clothes as she listened.
“Survey teams? Means like a knight-errant for paladins? Paladins at least.”
“The survey teams are the rescue teams Midor used to send out around these parts. Mirghul, Maldovia, Icy Vale, the Wastelands, and almost as far as The Great River.”
Natalyia found her eyes opening a little at the reach that Midor had enjoyed, and muttered to herself about the reach of the teams, her eyes drifting to Jerec’s form as Dorian continued his questions.
“More or less like knight-errants?”
She looked back to Reginald, as he replied to Dorian, with a friendly smile still on his face.
“Knight errants? No, they are different again. The survey teams were mixed groups, always with at least two priests. If you have ever found yourself in the Midoran Infirmary and wondered who brought you there, now you have your answer.”
Dorian nodded.
“That does explain a little.”
Natalyia tilted her head, and found herself commenting to Reginald, though she decided she was really thinking out loud.
“Guess priests mus' be needed, in tha' line of work. You work on one, guv?”
Reginald shook his head before replying, his eyes drifting away from Dorian to meet with Natalyia’s.
“No, I was never assigned to one.”
Natalyia fiddled with the simple gold bracelets around her wrist a little, frowning faintly. That made a little less sense. How did he know? Who were the three? Friends of Jerec’s?
“So... he jus'... wen' missin'? An' ended up 'ere? In fron' of somethin' tha' didn'... doesn'... exis'?”
She looked up from her trio of bracelets, tilting her head and locking her eyes with Reginald’s again as he replied.
“Three days ago. We only found him last night.”
That didn’t explain who they were, or why they were with him, or why they knew he was missing… a sheepish, apologetic smile spread across her face again, as she realized she had to ask.
“Uh... 'ate to be rude.... bu' who /are/ you, an' your friends, guv? Midorans? Former Midorans? Friends of 'is?”
Apparently, a more meaningful question than she’d intended. Reginald took a moment to pause, frowning slightly, consideringly before the words came to him with which to reply.
“We are former Midorans, yes.”
A bright smile leapt onto her features. They had to be friends of his. She herself leapt- literally, to her surprise- forward, offering her hand to the man. He was clearly rather bewildered by her leaping antics. Natalyia blamed Syluné, who was obviously a bad influence. The bright, cheerful smile stayed set on her features, as she introduced herself.
“Natalyia.”
The man was clearly still taken aback, and shook her hand uncertainly before he made his reply.
“I am Reginald Marshall.”
“Pleased to mee’ you, Reginald.”
Macha and Dorian introduced themselves, and Reginald’s eyes panned around them as he smiled in response.
“An honor to meet you all.”
Natalyia smiled, and nodded. That definitely explained a few things. If not the monument, who the various people present were- and why they were there. At least, why everyone else was there- except for Jerec. She noticed Dorian nod, and turned her attention to him as he began to speak- to Reginald, she noted.
“Why not Midorans anymore?”
Natalyia found herself frowning. Never mind how Reginald must have felt. A question that had to be asked, she supposed. Though a brutal one. A hard one to deal with- if the three present, or even Jerec, really knew the answer at all. There wasn’t a pause, though. Reginald responded quickly, and evenly. Even so, Natalyia found herself awkwardly tucking a lock of her hair; blown loose by the wind; back away behind her ears and biting her lip.
“Have you not seen the state of the city lately, friend? It is not the holy place it once was.”
A fair comment, she supposed. Regrettable, indeed- but fair, all the same.
Dorian wasn’t done, clearly. After sighing faintly, he continued. Natalyia frowned more- she didn’t think he understood, a lot like Moon yesterday. They didn’t mean ill, they just didn’t grasp the entirety of the situation. Though, she supposed, neither did she. The only people who could were the Midorans, in the end.
“I mean, even if you're not allowed to go to Midor, like those paladins that got their order broken down. You can still follow Midor’s teachings. I mean it doesn’t mean you have to flock with the rest to believe in him.”
Reginald’s voice rang out, louder, with an air of incensed finality to it. The gusting winds seemed hushed by it, nature silencing itself to listen.
“No.”
“We cannot.”
Natalyia frowned faintly, looking between the two as Reginald continued.
“I fear I do not follow your argument.”
Eying Reginald apologetically, Natalyia decided to butt in. Better that they argued through her than with each other.
“They can’. I think Midoran’s shown wha’ Midoran’s abou’… Sorry, guv… Probably don' need me rubbin' all of your faces in it, like.”
Dorian shrugged slightly again, before addressing Reginald again.
“Well, I mean.... The idea behind what Midor is, is still the same. Isn’t it? The ideals of justice what’s right and wrong and so on?”
To this, Reginald nodded.
“This is what Father Duvados has begun to preach.”
Dorian stopped, abruptly.
“Oh. Never mind, then.”
Natalyia tilted her head curiously, and looked to Reginald. She thought of Cedrych.
“I 'eard it from a mate of mine, too. It's go' some good logic behin' it, tha' thinkin'.”
Reginald looked curiously to Natalyia.
“Have you indeed?”
She nodded.
“Yeah, we was chattin' abou' it yesterday. He were a Paladin, righ'? So he was sayin' tha' jus' because Midoran's shown tha'... well... y'know... Shown tha' doin' the righ' thin' don' mean a gorramed thin' in Midor no more... Jus' 'cos of tha'... Well, don' mean tha' the things tha' used to make Midor grea' don' matter.”
She paused, trying to collect her words better before she continued.
“Unity, 'onor, an' tha'. Belief in doin' the righ' thin'. Things wha' used to mean bein' a Midoran, I guess.”
Finally, she gave up. The apologetic smile once again found its way to her lips, and she found a lock of hair to tuck back away to stop her twiddling her thumbs, as she was accustomed to doing when nervous.
“... sorry. Probably don' make none sense comin' from my mouth, do it? Probably mashin' all of 'is arguments an' logic into some mess”
She was somewhat taken aback when Reginald’s face formed a warm smile before he responded, consideringly.
“Actually, you are quite correct.”
“…. Oh.”
“That is indeed what we have been asked to remember.”
Nodding slowly, Natalyia decided to continue trying to outline what Cedrych and she had discussed in the way of his ideology. It would be good to get a feel for what some of the other former Midorans believed in. Maybe she could help them find their way, or something…
“An' he also said... Tha' he still believes tha' there's a single, greater, benevolen' bein' ... wha' is wha' he used to think were Midoran.”
Another nod from the former priest.
“That is also correct. In fact, that part is one of the things we still seek to clarify.”
A faint smile crept onto Natalyia’s lips a moment before she replied.
“Guess it's kin' of importan'.”
Reginald nodded, before expanding consideringly on what he’d said.
“That Midoran was the source of our manifest powers is undeniable. Those who have ever wielded it know this for a certainty. Now we see that our blessings still continue, yet in subtle ways.”
Tilting her head, Natalyia looked at the priest more seriously.
“‘Ow do you mean, guv?”
The priest, in turn, looked back to Natalyia and continued slowly, consideringly, she thought. It was evidently something that he took as a fact, but couldn’t yet explain. As she listened, she realized, neither could she… really.
“Extraordinary and inexplicable coincidences still occur to us. Most of the priests who were stationed in Paws managed to leave with their lives intact. There were survivors from the destruction of the Academy.”
“There was!?”
Natalyia quickly closed her mouth again, not having been able to control the outburst. Hadn’t everyone on the Island at the time been killed? Dorian, however, didn’t seem so surprised- had he already known somehow?
“So you're saying the fact that they live is a proof of greater good?”
A warm, yet slightly tired smile broke onto the priest’s face, and he took a moment before responding. Evidently, he had weighed his words carefully.
“Proof? It depends on if you decide to perceive it as such. We believe it is.”
“Good to ‘ear, in either case.”
“Or maybe it's a punishment to live through it all?”
The priest frowned, turning back to Dorian. Then, surprisingly to Natalyia, he nodded.
“That is an attitude some have chosen to adopt.”
“Seems more logical that way.” Commented Dorian.
Natalyia just couldn’t see why. How is it more logical for a deity to punish his faithful like this than to abandon them completely? It may be impossible to understand the divine, but could they be so cruel? So callous? Were they? The priest paused, and shook his head sadly- yet his voice held an upbeat, optimistic tempo.
“However, the rest of us choose to live in hope.”
“I don’t see how can you choose that, but it doesn’t matter.”
Natalyia smiled faintly, at that. Dorian could be predictable in his depressed outlook on life. It was sad. He was such a genuinely kind man, for the most part- yet he was despondent to such an extent it dragged her down to spend time around him.
“'ope is a good thin'. I reckon it's the bes' thin'.... bu', that's jus' me.”
She shrugged slightly, a faint smile still playing on her features as she looked back to the monument, and to Jerec. After a moment of study, her eyes moved back to Reginald, and she tilted her head curiously.
“An' you're guardin' 'im, then?”
Reginald shook his head, and turned to face the monument. Natalyia turned also, though found herself looking back over her shoulder to him as they conversed.
“It seems there is no need. There is something else here... Yet nevertheless, we maintain our vigil.”
“Mus’ be goin’ blind. Don’ see no one.”
“Sometimes you see them. They don't always come.”
After pausing for a moment to consider, Natalyia nodded. She moved slowly towards the monument, her eyes moving between it and the form of Jerec, praying in front of a headstone. As she moved, the fallen autumnal leaves crunched softly beneath her feet, and a very faint shiver went down her spine. A naughty feeling, as if she disturbed something beautiful. Something which should be left alone- something sacred?
The monument was still fading in and out of reality, though it looked similar at a close distance to how it did farther away. The four columns at the corners of a square, and inside a cenotaph. At the base of the cenotaph a Celtic cross, and inscription, and in front of that, Jerec.
No one else, though. Just Jerec, alone, in front of the memorial. As it had been when she arrived.
She was starting to turn away when something moving caught her eye, and she found herself spinning, turning rapidly to face it, and blinking as she did so.
It was a horse, of sorts- or at the very least, it looked like a horse. Standing to the left of the monument amongst the poppies, eyes locked with her, staring. An incredible creature. An impossible creature, with purest, unadulterated white hair which glinted in the light like sun off snow, empathic, blue eyes, and a single horn set in the centre of its forehead.
Then it vanished, in silence.
Natalyia turned quickly to the priest, her eyes flitting between him, Dorian, and Macha.
“Smeg! Wha’ the ruttin’ ‘ells was tha’? A white ‘orse with….”
It came to her, and she paused for a moment to gather herself before continuing, more calmly.
“Unicorn?”
Macha just shook her head.
“I didn’t see anything.”
Dorian, however, cleared his throat uneasily, and addressing no one in particular asked:
“A Unicorn?”
Natalyia nodded, turning to face him before she tried to explain.
“Yeah, Syluné wen' on abou' 'em once. They're supposed to be mystical. Wai'. Mythical? ... somethin' like tha'.”
Now Macha nodded to her, looking distracted- but providing confirmation, at least.
“Mythical, aala.”
“No’ real. No’ appearin' nex' to monuments with random good blokes prayin' at 'em.”
Natalyia sighed faintly, and found herself fiddling nervously with her bracelet again as she moved closer to the incorporeal monument. She moved to the apparently unconscious form of Jerec, still praying. Taking a moment to look him over, she frowned faintly. He wasn’t moving, beyond the slow rise and fall of his chest. He was alive, at least. His lips weren’t moving, and his eyes were closed. She decided that, if he was aware of her presence, he wouldn’t be moving to acknowledge it. He was busy with something. But what?
Her chest fell slowly as she exhaled slowly, calmingly.
“Righ’…”
She straightened up again, and looked to the other side of the monument to where the Unicorn had appeared from. She barely had chance to take a step forward before another figure began to materialize out of the ether.
A man, maybe. An Elf, perhaps. With flawless, smooth skin, piercing blue eyes, and magnificent alabaster wings sprouting from his shoulder blades.
Then nothing, the red tones of fallen leaves and poppies intertwining in front of her, and not even a disturbance to indicate where the man’s feet had lain. Natalyia sighed faintly, and looked back to the other five.
“Strike you as a li'l odd, guv?”
Dorian merely repeated to himself.
“White winged men and unicorns.”
Reginald shook his head, and replied in a hushed, but not whispering tone.
“We are not sure what to make of it. They appear as unreal as the monument.”
Natalyia found herself smiling slightly at that. A wry smile, she imagined.
“Yeah… bu’ what’s real?”
Reginald evidently couldn’t find a reply to that. Or perhaps he didn’t want to. His eyes shifted to the monument, and he began to stare at it, consideringly.
…
“So. This is extraordinary an' inexplicable, righ'?” |
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? |
|
|
|
|
Old Names, Old Ways
Posted: 15 Mar 2006 02:40 PM |
She was supposed to have left days ago, but one thing led to another, and before she knew it, the Conclave had gotten it into their heads that she was now in charge of them in Jerec's absence. It was a situation which happened to her with alarming frequency, and she'd never quite figured out how to defend against it. It was simply impossible for her to keep a low profile. Within a year of being in the Midoran Army, she'd gone from being a faceless soldier to a platoon commander; within a year of being in the rebellion—and the Aristi after that—she'd shot through the ranks from being an anonymous paladin to being one of their highest-ranking officers.
And now it was happening all over again. Within two weeks of casually helping Jerec out with this project, Lillian had gone from an informal advisor with no standing rank to de facto leader.
"We've been sending the priests down to the Great Plains in small groups so they can see for themselves what's going on, but I don't think this new development will tide them over for long," Mother Whitehall was saying. "There is no indication of how long Father Duvados will continue to be there. We don't even know what he is doing."
"Well, we can't afford to wait," Lillian decided, adjusting her glasses and scanning the papers before her. "Start sending the groups north again—it's absolutely crucial that we keep the momentum going, and the Code brings us a step closer to defining the core of our beliefs. Father Teluvion's identified a relatively out-of-the-way location on Buckshire Coast which should be suitable for our purposes. With or without Father Duvados, we are moving on."
There were uneasy looks around the table. No one had dared to admit before now that they might have to continue without him.
"There's no guarantee they will listen to anyone else," Father Torvell pointed out.
"They barely listened to Father Duvados," Lillian said bluntly "A priest with an unknown name, an undistinguished career, and not even of a respectable age yet, addressing a crowd of old priests set in their ways, aged in their fifties and sixties? No, he may have caught their attention, but if we give them too long to think about it, they'll start looking elsewhere."
"Perhaps if Lord-Bishop Seyon were to address them in this upcoming session..." Mother De La Rosa mused.
Lillian shook her head. "Lord-Bishop Seyon was popular with the common folk, but had no real standing with the nobles and the other priests... which equates to the same thing. He would fare no better than Father Duvados has in swaying them."
"Then who shall do the presentation instead?" Father Vandemar asked irritably. "By that logic, there's no one. Anyone who might have cemented their loyalty is either dead or in league with the White Bishop."
"Not quite." Mother Whitehall's voice, though quiet, riveted the attention of the others. She looked at Lillian in an odd way. "There is someone in this room they will listen to."
Lillian gritted her teeth. "You know I can't be the one to speak to them. Unless it's your intention to drive them away."
Unperturbed, Whitehall leaned back in her seat, steepling her fingers. "Villanova, isn't it? That's what Father Duvados has been calling you all week."
Mother Alcarin's eyes suddenly lit up in recognition. The others merely looked confused.
"It's a dead tradition, all but forgotten," Lillian said, feeling the colour rise in her face. "The names stopped being significant some decades ago; perhaps even longer than that. It's an old-fashioned and obsolete system."
"Names? System? Could someone please explain what's going on?" It was no surprise that the question came from Vandemar, the youngest of the Conclave.
"Villanova," Whitehall said musingly. "One of the twenty-seven original patrician names."
Lillian had thought they would be too young to understand the significance of that. One look at the universally stunned expressions around the table proved her wrong. Either Jerec had selected a very old-fashioned group of young priests, or the custom did indeed live on even in this day and age.
There had been a time, not so long ago, when the twenty-seven patrician names had been considered sacrosanct. Between fifty and a hundred years ago, for complex political and economical reasons centred mainly around the rise of the Midoran Seafront and the so-called "new" nobles, that particular belief had been quietly phased out. What followed was a decline in the inviolate nature of names in general. The repercussions of that were still being felt today: the changing of a name or adopting of an alias was a ridiculously common practice now, where it had once been unheard-of before. She could still remember the vehement argument she'd had with her father at age eleven, when he'd changed the family name. Bad enough that he'd wanted to change it at all, but to change an ancient patrician name to something that wasn't even remotely Midoran... well, she had never forgiven him for the Blackstone alias.
"The Villanova witch trial, fifteen years ago," Father Lindeville breathed. "I remember that. It had half the population up in arms over the integrity of the justice system."
"They didn't have a case and they knew it." The argument was an old one, and she was tired of it. She'd gone through this already at the Academy. "It was just an excuse to nail the coffin shut on a tradition that was already officially dead."
"It backfired, as I recall," Mother Alcarin put in wryly. "If anything, it revived interest in the old custom, if only for a little while."
"Regardless," Whitehall interrupted quietly, "the fact remains that the name still bears significant weight. It matters not whether it's relevant or applicable; all that matters is that the older priests will recognise and respect it."
"Worship it, you mean," Vandemar snorted. Now that he had caught on to what all the fuss was about, he was looking at Lillian speculatively with narrowed eyes. "Wasn't that the main reason they removed power from the patrician families in the first place? They'd been deified until the new law was passed."
Lillian's lip twisted into an expression of disgust. "Mister Vandemar, in the long history of Midor, no Midoran has ever been deified—patrician or otherwise. If I ever find out who changed the Academy texts and curriculum to include that particular falsity, they shall pay dearly."
She didn't add that she'd already had a violent falling out with some of the Academy staff over it. Lillian had spared them the trouble of finding a quiet way to delicately silence or expel her by making the decision for them and abruptly leaving seven years ago. No warning, no explanation. Just an abrupt and baffling withdrawal from her Paladin training five months before the final Trial, which had been a message more eloquent than words. Claude had gleefully informed her that it had taken months for the uproar from other staff and students to die down; he'd neglected to mention that he was the one who'd caused most of it, but he hadn't needed to.
If they had dismissed her, it would have dragged her name and her honour through the mud. As it was, she'd turned the tables on them. She'd heard afterwards that there had been an audit on Academy staff and course content. Claude, it seemed, had accidentally-on-purpose leaked her patrician name and made it known that she'd walked away from the Academy by her own choice. For a good student to leave was regrettable. For a patrician to leave the Academy out of disgust was unthinkable.
"Perhaps it was a sign, like so many we did not see," Whitehall's eyes took on a faraway look. "Nobility ceased to become noble when it no longer came attached with tradition, history, responsibility and duty. It simply became a sign of wealth and prestige, when once it had nothing to do with either."
"I hope you understand what you are asking," Lillian warned. "If invoked, the old laws call for the eldest Midoran families to rule. Not to discuss, not to debate, not to philosophise or console or preach. It has not been done since the first days of Midor, when swift action was needed to ensure survival."
"I would call this a survival situation," Father Lindeville pointed out. "We've indulged in too much pointless debate already; meanwhile, we lose precious time. If we lose too much time, we shall become an extinct people and a dead faith."
Slowly, Lillian looked around the table, but she was met only with assent.
"You know, also, that this is a temporary measure. I cannot stay," she added.
"We cannot be dissuaded in this. Too much relies upon it," Whitehall said in that quiet voice of hers, but with an air of finality. "In three days, on Buckshire Coast—with or without Father Duvados, as you have said—our people must have a leader. Lady Villanova, descendant of the original twenty-seven Midoran families from the unknown lands of the True Light, the Conclave has decided that it will be you." |
|
|
|
|
|
Operation: Myriad
Posted: 31 Mar 2006 11:03 PM |
Rumour is a fickle and whimsical creature. It gossips of one thing avidly one day, and abandons it the next.
The world at large showed only mild interest in the movements of the exiled Midorans, forgetting them as soon as the Villanova address was given, forgetting them as soon as the Midorans quietly faded into the background whence they came. They were seen around the world as missionaries, working in groups that were—for the most part—autonomous. In organisation, they were akin to the Midoran survey teams that had up until recently patrolled the southern lands of Vives, rescuing adventurers and providing aid where needed, or to the Knight Errants who roamed the lands alone or in small groups.
Peripherally, they were there. But they were not in people's faces, and so the world overlooked them and forgot.
And yet one could not deny that they were there for all to see. In their own way, they had become public knowledge, a common sight. They were the water to Midor's fire: coolly implacable where Midor was passionate and fiery and easily moved to violence, still and serene where Midor writhed and struggled against itself and the world with furious turmoil, reflective and mysterious where Midor was all blazing and empty spectacle.
For now, they stayed well away from the fiery wrath of the White City, maintaining a low profile. After all, one does not put out a raging fire with a single drop of water.
One puts it out with a flood. |
|
|
|
|
|
Interlude
Posted: 03 Apr 2006 10:58 PM |
Somewhere...
"A new covenant to replace the one that was broken. Does she even know of what she speaks?"
"I doubt it. The dreams speak through her. She does not know their meaning. It has never been explained."
"Is it time, do you think?"
"Hard to say. Sslith lives. They returned his daughter to the Sslissayath and her blood awoke his long-dead bones. Dare we risk it? He is one of the eldest of dragons. I did not think he would ever live again."
"Evil never truly dies."
"Let us see what moves they make first. The news from Midor is disturbing, as are her words. Midoran is not who we thought he was."
"Nor are we who he thought we were. For now, we must wait." |
|
|
|
|
|
Pieces of a Shattered Puzzle
Posted: 08 Apr 2006 01:34 AM |
The Midoran Seafront
Beneath the high and vaulted roof of a lavish manor, one of the oldest properties on the relatively new Midoran Seafront, they met. News of the exiled Midorans and their movements had reached them. But only one detail concerned them.
"Well? What do you make of it?" asked one.
"It shows how ignorant they are if they would follow the Villanueva," replied another with contempt. "They are a line of warriors, not rulers. Whatever she might say to them, whatever image she might present, she lives only to serve, to fight and to die."
"It is of no concern to us," added a third airily. "Who could they rally? What could they possibly achieve? We have Midor. We have Midoran. We have the New Order. They have one name that they hide behind, one old and dead gasp of historical tradition that she has attempted to revive to hang on to their loyalty a little longer."
"It bears watching, but it will die of its own accord," said a fourth, sounding bored. "Others have tried and failed before. We shall keep an eye on it, but I think nothing will come of it."
Sunix Valley
"I think it is a sign."
He was a thin and tall and nondescript man, who did not shiver in the wintry chill of the valley. The faint and shimmering outline of an arcane abjuration surrounded his form, deflecting the harshness of the elements as effectively as a coat.
"A sign, Illumini?"
The mocking question came from a young woman, little more than a girl, who wore her blonde hair in pigtails. Her expression was merry, but her eyes were worldly and cynical.
"Do you think it a coincidence that this new all-encompassing alliance we hear about is called the Illumine Alliance?" he countered. "Someone is trying to catch our attention. From what I've been hearing, I think it's obvious who. They were on our side of the Patrician Civil War, after all."
The girl rolled her eyes. "The war is over! It ended centuries ago," she said in a long-suffering tone. "Must you go on about it as if it still continues? You dwell over battles already fought and lost as if they still have significance today!"
The man did not reply, but thought only to himself that it was a pity that the noble Ivoriadne were now extinct, and had passed on their legacy to their relatives, the Whynterre. Even among patricians, there was inequality. The Whynterre were nowhere near the quality of the Ivoriadne.
"Why are we here, Illumini?" the girl asked impatiently. "Say it and be done with it. It's cold and I have other things to be doing."
"The key. We will need it," he said simply, turning towards the gate that blocked the end of the valley. Beyond it, a shimmering and colossal bubble towered over the land. "The ivory key of truth. I trust you still have custody of it, Whynterre."
The smile remained frozen on her face, but her eyes had lost their mocking sparkle, replaced by a sudden fear as she realised the gravity of the situation.
"I do indeed still have the key," she said in a whisper. "When will you be needing it?"
"That depends on if they are deserving of it," he replied. "Let us see what the others do. Let us see if they rally to the scion of Villanueva. I have a feeling she is waiting for the Illumini or the Valianthe or both. I distrust the military. I would follow Valianthe, but not the belligerent Villanueva. And it is not the place of the Illumini to lead, any more than it is the place of the Villanueva."
The girl looked troubled. "Will there be war, Illumini?"
He smiled tightly. "The war never ended."
Somewhere near the Mazadhi Jungle
"The Sslissayath stir in the light of the Blood Moon."
"You know they cannot leave the dark; they have waited and will continue to wait. The brightness of the day would kill them."
"She promised she would return. Do you think she will come or must we go to her?"
"A promise is a promise. We wait."
Midor Woods
It was not often that visitors stopped by this part of the woods. It was dangerous here, and close by the cursed Paws Woods.
"Cassadari." The old woman who answered the door of the ramshackle cabin looked every bit the witch she was.
"Serilde," the visitor said in reply with a faint smile and a bow of her head. She appeared to be a young woman with a blindfold over her eyes, and her unbound golden tresses reached to her ankles. The silver circlet that she wore, with its lifelike obsidian eye, identified her as an augur.
The door widened just enough to let the young woman in. She stepped into a palace that bore no resemblance to the exterior of the hut.
"You have seen a prophecy, Cassadari?" Serilde asked, banishing the portal behind her.
The one surnamed Cassadari laughed lightly. "Straight to the point, as always! What makes you think I've seen one? Perhaps this is a social call. It has been eighty years, Serilde. Aetharron and Myriade are gone. The New Order killed the one and the rise of the Seafront killed the other. I've no one else to socialise with; the others shun me unless they have need of my sight."
"You've gouged your eyes out again, Cassadari," Serilde pointed out.
"It is a tiring and terrible thing, to see. Eyelids and blindfolds are not enough to shut out my sight. The eyes themselves must be removed, although they keep growing back. I see future destinies imprinted upon everything and every destiny says but one thing: death and death and death." She smiled sadly. "This is the sentence passed unto the world. It must perish. But before it does, it must decay first. Surely you have noticed that the tide of evil grows stronger. And where are the forces of good in all this? Massacred."
They walked through vast and vaulted halls filled with fountains, caged songbirds, magnificent statues.
"We cannot stop it," Serilde paused before a fountain, tapping her walking stick against the tiled ground.
"No, but we can fight," said Cassadari quietly. "Will you fight this time, Serilde? We have spent our lives sitting, watching, commentating. Perhaps this will bring us death at last, for death has shunned us when it should not have, old friend."
"I would not follow Villanueva," Serilde said. She used the old inflection, not the modern pronunciation. Her voice lacked Midoran accents; its accents were older, and bore no resemblance to those of Midor or Aristi. "They have never been rulers."
"There may yet be others." Cassadari toyed with a stray lock of her hair. "Time moves within circles. I see circles completing themselves, enclosing and locking destinies into place."
"I do not entirely trust your prescience."
"Nor do I," Cassadari admitted easily. "Will you instead trust my conscience?"
Serilde pressed her lips into a tight, thin line, but she gave a curt nod.
"Yes. This time, we fight." |
|
|
|
|
|
Fission
Posted: 19 Apr 2006 12:39 AM |
Lower Port Royale, ever hungry for gossip, is abuzz with the news of a new sect of exiled Midorans, led by a brash and rather bombastic young man named Lance Vandemar. Having broken away from Duvados' lot, it seems to be comprised mainly of angry young priests, who have quickly caught the attention of many former citizens and merchants of Midor with their passionate hatred against the New Order.
Their contempt extends to Duvados' group, who they believe are too old, too cautious, and too pusillanimous. Young Vandemar's message is one of vengeance. His group, like Duvados', believe that Midoran was never the One True God, but merely pretended to be him. For this blasphemy against the real True God, Midoran and his followers must be dealt harsh retribution.
Snide bets are taking place all throughout Port about how many sects will fission off from Duvados' movement, a faith which never had any tangible proof to back it up in the first place. The former Midorans are viewed with derision, clinging to superstitions and old ways. Of what use is their virtue, their philosophy, their belief in some nonexistant god? They fight against the rest of the world and fight amongst themselves!
The term "Midoran" becomes a colloquialism referring to someone who is argumentative, indecisive or pompous. It seems that all Midorans are doomed to either live under brutal unity in the White City or in eternally bitter division outside its walls. |
|
|
|
|
|
The Crossroads
Posted: 01 May 2006 12:04 PM |
Flare
He knew the moment the key turned in the door of the house. Had the Illumini not been the ones to layer defences upon it? Were they not the ones who continued to maintain those defences?
And so it was that the tall, thin nondescript man dropped everything he was doing. Named for light, returning to light. After all, there might not have been a summons, but the fact that the place had been opened again was summons enough for him.
Three
"Three roads to a crossroad. Three faces to fate. Three intersections and three only where one might stand and speak to fate face-to-face."
The woman without eyes saw more without them than with.
"I see, no wind, no rain. Therefore that is not the junction that has been disturbed. I see flame and smoke and water. The statue weeps blood but the blood does not stain."
"Dare we to approach?" asked Serilde. "They will never accept. We are what we are."
"Nevertheless we must ask," said Cassadari grimly.
Dream
She woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, remembering now why she'd been so opposed to opening up this place again, to return to it. Despite the warmth of the villa, she found herself shivering uncontrollably.
It was this place that did it. Something about this place.
It was the dream again.
The covenant abandoned. The war. The war before the war. The darkness before the light.
The nightmare world without a name. The place where they had left them behind. Centuries too late to save them now. The entire reason they'd had Paladins in the first place, had absolutely needed them—
But that knowledge had never been made known outside of the patrician families, and after the war, the victors had ensured that the Church—
The details skittered away before she could get a grasp on them. Answers, after all, had to be earned. An answer simply handed out was no answer at all: it had not been investigated, evaluated, questioned, tested, vivisected, fought for and fought over.
She did not fight sleep when it came again. Inevitably, the dream came with it, but somewhere in that tangled mess of memory was an answer that had to be found, and the sands were running down in the hourglass of fate. |
|
|
|
|
|
Sslith
Posted: 02 May 2006 12:27 AM |
He had spent months beneath the waters, recuperating from a centuries-old death. Blood of his blood poured onto his bones. His daughter had grown strong. The strength of her blood had been enough to restore him. Her sacrifice had been enough.
Had been more than enough, especially coming so close to the appearance of Lreh'mayla.
His leviathan head, noble, sinister and draconic, broke the surface of the water. The drowned caverns of Alcarin were filled with the unearthly, hissing chant of the gathered Sslissayath.
His voice boomed in the darkness, a chilling growl full of hatred and ages-old wrath. The chanting voices fell silent at once.
{Chosen of The Nemesis, the time has come,} he said in a language of darkness, a language of coldness, a language so old that none of the young warm races even knew it had ever existed. {The Children of the Bright World have forgotten us, but never have we forgotten them. It is time they came home. It is time they remembered their place in the world. It is time they remembered why they feared us, why they worshipped us, why—for ages uncounted by any passing of the light—they were slaves to us.}
He bared rows of sharp and powerful teeth, the size of hill giants. A vengeful roar escaped him.
{We have not forgotten how they betrayed us. How they murdered many of us. I have watched through the eyes of the warm ones, as you have watched. I have seen the Bright World. I have seen the people of Vrakhuss, The Shining One, The Unforgiveable One. He who dared to defy us, who dared to lead the Bright Ones to The Bright World from which we have been forever banished.}
The roar subsided, became a low and dangerous hiss.
{No, we have never forgotten them, nor have we forgiven them. The time for reckoning is upon us. By ancient law, for blood of ours, we must spill blood of theirs.}
There were no cheers, no shouts. Such displays were for warm ones. There was only the cold silence of absolute consent.
{When the Scions of Mazadhi hold their Blood Feast beneath the red light of the murdering moon... then we strike.} |
|
|
|
|
|
Decisions
Posted: 23 May 2006 06:49 AM |
It was cold in the tent, and a harsh wind blew outside, raging through the bleak and mountainous grey landscape. She perched in the chair with her hands folded in her lap, and save for the occasional blinking of her eyes, she might as well have been a statue.
Phillippe Jongras, Perriand Goodman and Kruvious Seyon sat opposite her like a panel of judges.
Phillippe was composed, as usual. He had listened patiently and without interrupting, as only someone who had spent decades in the diplomatic corps could. Perriand was incredulous; he'd suspected that this group, whom the public had arbtrarily tagged the "Novus Midorum", was up to something—but this was beyond the scale even he'd imagined. It was impossible, and yet it made sense; and if it succeeded, the world would never know. Kruvious was gravely silent and a little resigned.
A war so quiet that those being fought against would not even know they were being attacked. A psychological war with a twist. Justice as poetic as poetic justice came.
"I have not told you this to ask your permission. The plan is already in motion and would have failed or succeeded whether or not you knew," Lillian said in that precisely modulated voice of hers. She hesitated; then the adamant expression she wore faded, leaving behind only a world-weary and strained concern. "I ask only for your understanding, and your blessing. This has been an unexpected development; nevertheless, it presents an opportunity that may not arise again."
A pause as her gaze flitted to Phillippe. "It worked for the White Maiden. It worked for Sir Jongras. It could work again."
Phillippe winced. The situation was certainly similar, if not the same, but to do this deliberately—
Kruvious cleared his throat. "There are no guarantees that it will work. You must understand that. Duvados could still die."
Her hands curled into white-knuckled fists in her lap.
"I have been briefed on the probable outcomes, yes. We all knew, and know, the risks that come with our line of work. The risk is acceptable."
Perriand shot a look at Kruvious, who gave a helpless shrug. As the closest thing to a next of kin that Duvados had, this decision lay in her hands.
"Then so be it," said Phillippe with a tired air of finality. "I pray you know what you are doing." |
|
|
|
|
| |
|
Upheaval
Posted: 27 May 2006 11:00 PM |
Despite heavy security, even rumors and unintended news make their way out of Haven on occasion.
Perhaps a guard or herald mentions something to a loved one about shouting in the medical tent one night….
Another casual statement about a large stocky figure in plate mail leaving the tent in a huff, exchanging harsh words with another female knight…
The word continues to trickle down, and someone realizes all this took place on the same night that Father Jerec, a leader of a relatively small and reclusive group of former Midoran knights, dies….
And some clever souls – perhaps with malice in their hearts, perhaps not – hear these threads and put it all together.
The death of Father Jerec has sparked discord and upheaval within the Novus Midorum, and there is word that already one knight has left, unhappy with the group’s leadership and lack of action.
Some chuckle briefly at the Midorans' troubles – after all, it’s the least they deserve. Most just shrug their shoulders at the rumors. Too much else is going on in the world, and what can you really expect from a rag-tag bunch of exiles who’ve had their god and their people turn against them? |
The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for...
-- Ernest Hemingway |
|
|
|
|
Closure
Posted: 30 May 2006 06:49 AM |
clo·sure n. the perception of incomplete figures or situations as though complete by ignoring the missing parts or by compensating for them by projection based on past experience
~*~
The funeral of Jerec Duvados was held at the Fields of the Dead and presided over by Gwendolyn Whitehall, one of the few remaining priests remaining who'd been newly baptised and ordained. It was a near-repeat of the first part of the Sable Lake address, although this time they actually did have ashes to scatter.
We are here to remember a man who no longer stands here amongst us. To give him the honour that is his due. And to live up to the example he set for us to follow, that he might not have died in vain.
The entire thing was a farce. You could dress the situation up as nicely as you liked, but the pure and simple fact was that he'd died ignobly and in vain, just as thousands had died ignobly and in vain over the past two years, because of the actions of thoughtless and malicious people who couldn't give a damn about who they had to hurt to fulfil their selfish needs.
People Lillian was following in the footsteps of.
She cast her gaze over the assembly, a familiar chill running through her spine. As many times as she'd justified this strategy, it never made it easier to deal with the consequences. At the end of the day, the difference between noble and malicious intent, the difference between selfish want and doing what was best for the welfare of the lives and souls of the people you led, was irrelevant to those who had to pay the price. You had to make your decisions, you had to justify them and stick with them.
And then you had to live with them.
The pieces were falling into place with meticulous precision, but no one saw, no one knew. Closure filled in the gaps. And the bystanders only saw what they wanted to see and only the masterminds knew the real picture.
~*~
Nothing ever holds together; it is held together.
Author Unknown,
Il Amaranthi Codex |
|
|
|
|
|
Blood Moon
Posted: 04 Jun 2006 11:13 AM |
Somewhere near the Mazadhi Jungle
"Is it time already? There are still things yet unknown, things we must yet reveal—"
"Too late, Cherisse. It's time."
Dream
The dreams speak through her.
The darkness before the light.
The light that seared the stone.
Time's circle completing an ever-repeating orbit—
Too late now to put the pieces together.
It was time.
Alcarin Caverns
Incantations in the dark, filling the wet silence.
The ages-old dragon slithers out of the healing waters like a newborn.
{Chosen of The Nemesis—it is time.}
Zero Hour
And planets align and the puzzle pieces click into place but to see the picture you would have to have lived for millennia.
From a mortal standpoint, time is linear, but immortals see only a circle—
The snake biting its own tail and spinning, the symbol of infinity and eternity and yet at the same time signifying nothingness.
Not everything is as it seems and not everything is meant to be seen.
And they creep out of dark hiding places now, in vast numbers, cold blood gone hot beneath the light of the Blood Moon—
And the mad and futile frenzy of their attacks is a cover for the cold machinations of those that move unseen. |
|
|
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|