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Balance of Power
Posted: 02 Sep 2006 02:37 AM |
~ Part I: Children of Destiny ~
It had been in her family for generations.
The Starseeker's Stave, it was called. Mother had told her that it mapped not only the mathematical foundation of existence, not only the secrets that stars told in constellations if you knew how to read them, but also destiny and time.
Her entire life she'd sought the wisdom of the long-lost ancient Starseekers. How transient lore and knowledge was. How easily lost. Who in this world truly knew anything about the world itself? Who truly knew anything about history? Books were an expensive luxury, and very few people could actually read. She was lucky. Mother had sent her to Asashi to study.
But it had not been enough.
Destiny and time...
Her people had always been known for their boundless, child-like curiousity. Her education with the monks had been enlightening, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
So she decided to seek the source of destiny and time. After all, the knowledge of the stars was her birthright.
It was with sadness that she left Asashi after a mere fifty-three years there. For the next three centuries, she diligently roamed the Lands of Eternal Winter, seeking answers from Time herself. It always came as a shock when she met one of her own. How frivolous they were. How childish and illogical. Not like her: all cold mathematics and stolid remoteness. Were these creatures truly Gnomes? How unlike they were to reliable, solid rock. How unlike the cold stars with their immutable wisdom.
How unlike her.
In her three hundredth year, her glacial patience and diligence were rewarded. |
The subculture of my dreams
Is waiting for me to fall asleep.
I know you're scared—you should be.
I know you're scared. |
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News #1
Posted: 02 Sep 2006 02:53 AM |
Diviners, seers, immortals and others sensitive to the currents of time feel it: an uneasiness, a sense of imbalance, not easily attributed to a tangible source. A nagging feeling that something, somewhere, has shifted the equilibrium of reality.
* * *
Birds all across the lands are restless and hyperactive. Those who speak their language will pick up a sense of panic in their words and songs.
* * *
Sunshine gives way to rain and storms, the weather taking a baffling turn for the worse, especially in the southern lands. In the dry desert the winds scream more harshly and sandstorms occur more often, more than one caravan left stranded or cancelling a desert crossing due to the new conditions. Those travelling by sea or air will notice that their journeys are more turbulent than ever.
* * *
A sort of stillness has settled over the winterlands, a sense of waiting and tranquility.
South of Whipsnade Pass, somewhere around the Sunix realm, massive birds the size and colour of glaciers can sometimes be seen wheeling high overhead, their gigantic forms blotting out the light.
* * *
In an isolated wintry vale in the Sunix realm, a mysterious Gnomish woman can sometimes be seen studying the gates that block off the end of the valley, holding a fascinating stave in her hand that resembles a spinning display of constellations. |
The subculture of my dreams
Is waiting for me to fall asleep.
I know you're scared—you should be.
I know you're scared. |
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Ruffled Feathers
Posted: 02 Sep 2006 07:45 PM |
Oh her return from the mountains, Zubeida wandered upon a flock of wild turkeys. They were jittery, gobbling and cooing in an impromptu conference. Something was bothering them. At the sight of her they fled.
"Where are you going?" she asked, surprised because animals rarely fled from her.
"Away! Away!" they cried. Few thing are as fast as a wild turkey. Their legs are a blur and their heads so small that they look like schools of brown fish swimming through the air just inches above the ground. They fled through the brush toward Sunix Woods.
Zubeida considered taking their form and chasing after, but she was reluctant as she did not care for the forms of fowl. In her moment of indecision, a raven landed upon a boulder near her with a bit of flesh in his jaws. He dropped it to speak.
"Thanks," he croaked.
Zubeida glanced at him and noticed the kobold's ear now in front of the bird.
"Really, thanks." His head was cocked to the right so he could watch her with his left eye.
She bobbed her head. "Thank you for cleaning the battlefield."
He looked to the left, and looked at her now with his right eye. "Maybe I will be busy soon. Very busy. The battlefield. Yes. Too busy maybe."
Zubeida shuddered. She could feel it too. Something was not right. The turkeys could feel it. The raven could feel it.
"You feel it." The raven tapped the boulder with his beak. "Yes. I can see. You feel it."
Strange how the ravens steal your thoughts, she thought.
The bird just looked at her for awhile then ripped at the ear. At the same time he sharpened his talons on a vein of quartz exposed in the stone. She watched him. He was nearly as jittery as the turkeys, unusual behavior for a raven.
"I can feel it here," she said at last to him.
He licked his beak, bobbed his head, let out a deep croak, then a plaintive caw. "I feel it." A sudden gust of wind from the mountains ruffled his feathers. He hunched his head low, tucking it momentarily to his side, but only for a moment for in the next he leaped into the air, and flew away, still cawing in the distance, "I feel it. I feel it. I feel it."
Zubeida resumed hiking. She hiked into Sunix woods, taking her time so as not to startle the bears. It was slow going, but eventually she wound her way past them and into the hidden vale beyond. The turkeys remained hidden, not daring to speak with her.
The hidden vale was chilled as always. Snow lain over the ground, crunched beneath her boots. She passed a small graveyard and soon after arrived at the gates. Though she did not understand why, she felt that the gates sealed something beyond, something important, something.... She observed the magic field that held them shut. It appeared to be the true gate. She considered trying to dispel it, or forcing the locks on the gate with a spell, but refrained from doing so.
Instead she knocked.
A shadow passed over her, a great white bird soaring, a bird who looked capable of eating a mammoth. She watched the great bird while she waited. She was patient, but no one answered. She had been here before, and knocked. The stoney silence was the same then as it was now.
She returned to the graveyard and examined the names upon the stones. She looked at the graves for a long time.
Kalila, her panther, found her there praying. She nuzzled Zubeida. The panther did not like the place. The great birds made her nervous. Zubeida could feel her tension.
The two left together.
"Something is changing. Something is different. Something deep," Zubeida confided in her companion.
Kalila stares off into the distance as if to say, "Right...... Its always something."
Zubeida scratches her between the ears and everything is as it should be. |
Famous last words:
Mykal> it's my new wireless router.
* > Mykal has quit (Ping timeout)
Vulpina> Hey!! IRC didn't boot m.....
* > Vulpina has quit (Exit: DarkMyst WebChat) |
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Suspended Stars
Posted: 08 Sep 2006 03:41 AM |
Weeks later, Zubeida finds herself in the Sunix vale. Until her arrival, she does not know why exactly she has come, but the moment she enters the woods she feels it again, immanent change, like the moment before a storm, and she realizes her senses are attuned to this place. The timeless Vale is always on her mind. Every bird seems to sing of this place. Even the plaintive wail of the desert wind speaks of it. At the end of the Vale like a seed waiting for the rain, like an egg, the dome of magical force behind the double gate wraps its shell protectively about..."It". She knows it is there. She can almost hear its voice. She is not the only one.
A gnome with a staff crowned in a swirl of twinkling stars stands before the gate.
Zubeida greets her, but the little woman does not stir, focused as she is upon the gates. A series of strange blocky runes are inscribed upon them, perhaps gnomish.
"What do the markings say?" she asks.
Still no response. Instead the woman holds up her staff and from its tip blossoms a shower of stars. She begins the casting of a strange and alien divination.
Zubeida watches her weave the spell with rapt attention. Eventually the gnome stands in the center of a circle of brilliant stars to face the gates expectantly. She asks several questions in gnomish, her voice screeching and grinding like a machine.
The gates remain shut. The Vale is quiet.
Apparently disappointed, the gnome turns around and notices Zubeida for the first time.
Zubeida bows to her and greets her again. "I am called Djinn."
In a stilted and clipped voice she replies, "I am named Quirini Zasvadioc in short form. My name would be too long for your kind to remember."
"May I call you Quirini?"
"You may."
"Thank you. Your magics are impressive, Quirini."
Quirini inclines her head, neither accepting nor rejecting the remark.
"I have tried knocking on the door many times, but received no answer."
"Nor have I. One wonders if there is anyone on the other side to answer."
Zubeida nods. "Could you translate the markings for me? I am very curious of them."
At this Quirini becomes even more guarded. Zubeida waits out the silence, and Quirini asks, "Are you of The Destined? Have you seen the doors."
"I do not know which destiny that you speak of. Nor which doors. I see these doors before us, and the great sphere beyond."
"Some have been chosen. They have been shown the ways of fate. Behind each door, a destiny. To each destiny, a door."
A memory stirs in the desert woman, something primordial, a memory from her beginning. "The doors.... Yes. I remember." Her eyes meet Quirini's. "Yes, I remember. It was like a dream. To each a destiny. Just as to each a beginning. I remember opening the door." Zubeida's eyes are lustrous, and dark. Stars seem to swirl in them, reflections of the magics dancing about Quirini.
"In life, doors back within. In the dream, doors without. A great criss-crossing as we traverse each world."
"The weaving of dreams and reality. That is how I think of it."
The gnome nods in agreement, "It is."
The two speak for a time of what lies beyond the gate. Great birds circle overhead. Snowflakes hang suspended in the air. They speak for a time but the place is timeless.
Then Quirini speaks as if in a trance, "Something there is.... Coming. The perfect weaving to shred. The perfect crystal to shatter. A natural order tipped into imbalance. The balance of power changes."
Zubeida wonders if she is reading from the markings, but Quirini's eyes are lost in the swirl of dancing stars blooming from the end of her staff. "The fulcrum of the natural order does indeed seem to be shifting," the desert woman muses.
"Nature does not disturb nature. Only the unnatural does."
"Yes."
"All nature exists in balance."
"And all is natural."
"Other things there are, more terrible things, than Undeath. Other forms of not-life." Quirini's gaze wanders to the gate unfocused as if looking through it.
"The shades of destruction?" Zubeida asks.
"Not even. Existence without life. Existing without living." The gnomes responds in her clipped staccatto.
Zubeida narrows her eyes peering into the gnome's face trying to fathom what world Quirini is looking into. She looks haunted.
"No one ever locked something up without reason. Always it is something dangerous."
Zubeida turns to look at the gates. "Dangerous to whom?"
"To someone." She then shakes her head as if to clear it. "Yet if the doors are never opened, then the doors are never opened."
"Change is dangerous, but without it ... what is life?"
Quirini bows her head in agreement. "Yes."
Zubeida narrows her eyes again this time at a snowflake suspended before her. "Change is slow in this place. Time almost seems to stand still." She lets her gaze wander to the candles on the graves, still burning, barely flickering.
The shadow of a great white roc wheels over them.
"Then what lies beyond is likely preserved," replies the gnome. "If it is something dangerous, it is dangerous still. Time has not diluted it. But if it is knowledge and wisdom of the ages, then it too is undiluted."
With that the little gnome turns to the door and plants her staff in the snow. She lowers her head and lapses into silence, intent once more on whatever divination she's performing.
Zubeida watches her for sometime then quietly walks from the still valley. |
Famous last words:
Mykal> it's my new wireless router.
* > Mykal has quit (Ping timeout)
Vulpina> Hey!! IRC didn't boot m.....
* > Vulpina has quit (Exit: DarkMyst WebChat) |
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Re: News #1
Posted: 18 Sep 2006 07:57 PM |
Snow drifted down lazily from the white clouded heavens above, and landed without sound on the frozen ground. Cold air turned warm breath to vapor that drifted away from the thin, chapped lips that let it free. The land is still, yet animate; a constant perfect moment. From the mouth comes no sound, but they move; undulating to unspoken words. Steep cliffs cut off any other entrance to the small vale, the path leading out to the woods, and the only other entry – or exit - by foot being a gate. On either side of the path lay tombstones, whether there was anything buried at their feet was a mystery better left solved to grave robbers. Going beyond the gate was impossible, it was locked, barred, and protected by a mystical shield coalesced over what lay behind it.
Wrapped in his warmest robes from head to toe, the mage sat on his haunches with his balance protected by the gravestone at his back. The cold always had a way of finding its way through even the tightest trappings, and for Bereil it was no different, he shivered, despite his well layered clothing. His blue-grey eyes drifted across the scene, always to settle on the gnome and her staff. It was still bright; the sun kept the vale well lit, although it felt as if it had been more than just hours since he had first arrived. In fact it had been hours, there, in the Vale, where time begins to slow. He imagined his name on one of the nameless graves, the thought made him ill, and it was one to be quickly banished.
The gnome barely moved, so engrossed in her work, and she ignored Bereil’s attempts at conversation. Eventually he grew frustrated, violence out of the question he picked a spot and waited. An opportunity would arise. His eyes narrowed to thin slits of suspicion at the sky above as the shadow of one of the rocs drifted over. Again his thoughts drifted back to the conversation with the red haired, Vilyavian halfling priest – Alton Highhill. Questions arose, and were left unanswered, leaving behind an enigmatic mystery steeped with age, and shrouded with ancient history so long past that even some of the Gods’ greatest servants did not have answer. That in turn led Bereil to believe that some of the Gods themselves did not actually know know themselves. They would though, this gateway could change the world, he thought to himself. |
CHOO CHOO!
- - - - - -
Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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The Witness
Posted: 19 Sep 2006 11:25 AM |
Already a year had passed since it happened, even though it lasted for millennia; the old waking to the new, the flame overgrowing the candle, the candle burning out…
… the world tipping to imbalance.
~ * ~
There are always those external to balance, individuals capable of tipping it one way or the other. Their struggle keeps the balance in an everlasting equilibrium.
Sometimes, usurpers may tip the balance too much, and like a scale – it falls over.
What began with a being set among the greatest of dragonkin, Frezt, in the destruction of an ancient elvenhome, ended in the breaking of the equilibrium millennia later in a battle destined to disaster.
The world felt it, but few are those who witnessed it. A cacophony of power and magic unlike anything the world has ever seen, seeming to tear the very fabric of existence.
One such witnesses was one responsible of the crime, Alton Highhill.
~ * ~
Zephyr was gliding through the trees of Sunix with the young halfling barely catching up to him. The hawk, a companion of Alton for some time now, clearly had some intention for leading the halfling on a wearying chase. What that intention was, Alton could not tell, but if the hawk wanted to get away, it would have done so already.
Not before long Alton began to feel the ground beneath his feet sink at every step he took. Running became harder, and he was running out of breathe, with the hawk still leading the chase at a rapid pace.
Before he could realize where he had gone, the chase ended. Zephyr stopped and stood upon a slate of rock, and Alton found himself tripping over and falling, his face buried in the freezing earth.
~ * ~
Quickly enough, Alton pulled himself up to sit upon the cold ground. Snow. Zephyr stood before him, gazing forward, unmoving, on top of a tombstone.
Beside him and behind him were tombstones (on which he tripped), upon each stood candles, their flames hardly flickering. The scene was covered with snowflakes, not descending down to the earth, but seemingly floating in mid-air. Before him stood a large wooden gate, and beyond a great sphere loomed like a giant bubble.
He had seen the sight before, but the wonders always stroke him anew.
He has also seen her before.
~ * ~
She was there, alone in the snow, as she were the last time he has seen her. She was unusual for a gnome, far grimmer and more quiet compared to the rest of her kind. Perhaps more mature.
Alton rose to his feet, looking at the gnome, who walked from spot to spot before the gate in perfect geometric patterns, calculating every centimeter she walked and every angle she turned in. It was incredibly precise, though Alton could not know it.
Slowly he stepped towards her, observing and listening as she continued to walk and turn while speaking to an unknown source in gnomish, some strange incantation he could not understand. Occasionally his gaze focused on her staff, displaying an amazing collection of spinning stars and constellations.
He continued to watch, wondering, when at last, as if decided by fate, the precise measurements of her movement turned her to face him.
Zephyr flew to a tree beside her, still gazing. She did not notice at first.
~ * ~
"Oi", Alton called, hoping to draw her attention, in spite of his vain attempts times before.
Immediately, her head snapped into attention, focusing on Alton as if she knew him before – or knew of him. "We have not met but I have seen the traces of you in Time's stream."
"Questions. They always have questions who come here." She paused.
It was not difficult for him to see her lost in the same questions. "I think ya got a few questions yerself. Dis place raises 'em."
She nodded. "Begs questions, but hides it secrets. Hides it answers." Her common was stilted, every syllable forced, as if she was unfamiliar with the language. She continued speaking, but in the gnomish tongue, and Alton could not understand. "I've lived wiv gnomes a lot, but I've never learned deir tongue."
"Impossible to. The algorithms. Not language like you understand it. Four hundred years it would take you to learn. What Gnomes know inherently." She responded, taking an awkward pause before turning to him again. "You. Questions to seek you? Or balance to shatter?"
"I got 'nuff questions, an' no reason to break any balance. I think you got a few answers fer me, though."
"Answers. Maybe. In your..." She paused… "myhkiyka…" Another word in gnomish. "... maybe even there are words. And maybe not. To express the answers."
The gnome turned her staff from finger to finger, the movements sending the stars on her staff awhirl. Alton gazed at the swirling stars, the thing striking him as odd. "I don' understand."
"No. Not to understand. In your language, is not understanding to be. Was not made for the understanding of."
Alton paused, trying to figure out her words. He looked at the snowflakes, barely moving as they supposedly descend down to the ground. The phenomena gave order to his thoughts again. "I still need some answers."
"Your questions then to ask."
~ * ~
Alton thought over his questions, taking a long pause. He looked at the locked gate behind the gnome, and beyond at the sphere beyond it. That would be the obvious question, of course, but the obvious question tends to lead to no satisfying answers, if at all.
"'oo are you?, he finally asked.
To name I is a name too long for you to understand. I in simple language. Label as Quirini Zasvadioc." Alton repeated the name to himself, marking it in his memory, and continued. "Why are ya 'ere?"
"To…" The gnome once again lost her words, and continued in her own language, before turning once more to common. "Crossroads that criss-cross. Time and fate. Here are they crossing to be here I must be." She spoke another sentence in gnomish again.
Alton considered her response, recalling the warning of Vaast'liax, who called him days ago, of a usurper, and a coming disaster. "So we're 'ere fer da same reason... I got a third question... are you 'ere to shatter tha balance?"
Quirini responded in a flat tone, as if the answer was obvious and should not have been asked. "No. Is not to shatter. To seek and understand but not to be shattered. It. The balance sacred is. Seek they I who may be ones who will. All unknowing they even sometimes."
"Dey? Who are dey
The gnome paused, scanning all the information in her head for the answer, to no avail. Not know. Am seeking. Is why to be seeking am." She looked up at the images ice rocs flying far overhead.
Alton turned his head to the sphere, and noticing this, Zephyr did as well. The avian were more sensitive to the uneasy feeling that the equilibrium is tipping. They felt it from the valley, from the secrets locked behind the sphere. It should not have taken long for Alton to realize this. He turned to her again. "Do ya think dey're inside?"
"A likely probability. Perhaps. Something there is. Something there must be. Nothing ever locked was so tight without reason good."
She was curious of what's inside. Alton was as well, but he had no intention of meddling in secrets that should have been forgotten. "Aye. I agree. But I don' fink we're ready fer wotever's inside to answer our questions. Old answers can be dangerous."
"Perhaps. And perhaps not. Nothing old here is, is it?" She lowered her gaze.
Suddenly it struck him. Nothing really was old. The snowflakes he looked at from the beginning were still the same snowflakes he was looking at now. They were descending, but at such a slow pace – it could have taken them millennia to reach their current spot from the high clouds. "Aye. Not old..."
This world is old, it is aging as time passes. The valley is young, time does not move here as it does in the rest of the world, and so it did not age with the rest of Vives.
Alton remembered what others told him; figures who knew of the ancient history of the world. When the world was young, it contained within itself a much stronger power, so great that as it aged, it weakened so much that it could no longer remember the power it once held – it is unimaginable.
Like the body of a man, it grows weaker as it reaches old age, and can no longer endure the effort it could have when it were young. In the same manner, the current world could not endure such power.
"Danger or enlightenment there may be beyond. Not know."
"Are tha answers worth knowin'? He had to know if she is willing to take the risk, or if she is even aware of the risk.
"Risk there always is. Nothing worthwhile without risk earned. But also must intelligence apply." The answer taught him one thing; her curiosity was not met with recklessness. She was aware… somewhat.
Alton looked at Zephyr. In the mysterious bluish hue of the place, his blue-coloured shape reminded him of the dragon Vaast'liax. The gnome did not know, but he did – he witnessed it over a year ago. He recited the words he were told.
"I've seen wot 'appens when tha world tips to imbalance."
Suddenly, Alton could see the familiar gnomish curiosity he knew in the rest of her kin. Her hands curled around her stave and she leaned forward, her attention drawn to him like an eager student. "Seen?"
Alton explained, but only a little, testing her curiosity. "When der's too much power in a world not ready fer it. I've seen da results."
"What seen? What is? How to stop it?"
He remembered the words of Vaast'liax again. A fire is coming, but it is not from the realm of fire. A winter is coming, but it is not the doings of the Ice Witch. A storm is coming, but it is not the handiwork of the Lady. These things met before, but at the hands of the sisters, but the source did not matter – the disaster would be the same.
" Storms, fires an' blizzards are not meant to swirl at da same place, at da same time. Balance can't 'andle it, it's shattered, an' power bursts out everywhere, breakin' da world." Alton pulled out a stone from his pocket – the same stone he used to intervene in the battle of the two sisters, allowing Vilyave to join the war. At sight of the stone, Zephyr came to attention. It became, for some reason, a symbol for all avian.
The gnome looked shocked at this. "The... world? All the world?"
Alton nodded. " Like a glass filled with too much water. It can't 'old all o' it." He held up the stone in the air. "Wot 'appened was…"
The gnome was troubled. "Then what... then how? How the imbalance was made?"
"Da storms, da fire an' da blizzard all came to da stone. It's supposed to 'old magic. Powerful 'nuff dat no magician in our world can make 'nuff of."
Perhaps that was true, perhaps only partially true. One thing was fact; the stone could hold incredible power. Few things in Vives, living or otherwise, could withstand the powers of the Three Sisters unleashed in such furious battle against each other for such a long time. Even the world itself began breaking not long after the stone did.
The gnome was focused on the stone now. The realization of its capabilities amazed her, or maybe it was curiosity inborn in her as in all gnomes, being attuned to the rocks and the earth. "Quirini Zasvadioc: And how, how did you the stone to have?"
Alton did not answer the question directly. Instead, he continued to explain what he had started earlier. "Dat's 'cos our world can't allow so much power to be made at tha same time. That's when ther's balance. When a mage can't make too much power fer tha stone to 'old, but mages 'ave these stones."
That was true. He could have gotten the stone from many sources, but he remembered the only available options that stood before him at the time; Nailamne, a tower where mages of the darkest sort gather to practice their unspeakable magics and horrors behind their walls; Malakai, an ancient magically-immortalized mage who feared the loss of his own life and power more than everything; and Frobozz, the result of a horrible magical explosion, the explanation of which would drive any sound-minded person insane, just as this incredibly powerful mage is.
Alton realized the common ground for all those sources. Yes, they were all mages, but they were also mages of great power. So great was their power that it shattered their sanity, driving them to deeds that no regular mortal could perceive, yet they achieve daily, or a single-minded obsession for themselves and that power, or an unexplainable lack of sense and lack of understanding of that power which they possess.
Now this gnome, this possible usurper who could break the balance, in spite of what could be her best efforts not to, had to realize as well.
The gnome sharply interrupted Alton, a faint look worry breaking her features. "Sharply, looking faintly worried* More than one there is of that stone?"
Alton continued in spite of the question. "Mages 'oo got too much power fer 'em to 'old demselves, an' dey can't 'andle it either, jus' like dat stone couldn', jus' like da world couldn'. People 'oo become a lil' crazy, 'cos der's too much power in 'em."
The gnome paused again. "The magic affects the mind? Causes madness? A sickness is magic?"
Alton was pressed hard to answer that question. "No. I don' think its sickness. Water ain' a sickness, we drink it all da time. We need it to live, but if we drink too much, it 'urts us. I think it's tha same wiv magic."
No, that's not what he wanted to say, but it was close enough.
Alton continued, his attention returned to the story of the sisters, and the stone as metaphor to the world.
"Tha stone is meant to 'old magic an' focus it inside, but too much magic, too much power 'urt it. Power dat tha world ain' supposed to 'ave, but it did, when tha gods go to war."
The gnome thought to herself, muttering three words in her own tongue.
"Dra banvald yhcfan."
Then suddenly…
"And no one, no one ever... Why not this has not been made known? To be published or told, or word to be spread? Why still irresponsible there are powerful people?"
Only the last question mattered.
"'cos people sometimes want too much power, too much knowledge, too much answers. When it 'appens..." Alton dropped the stone, that mighty stone that once stood at the eye of a storm composed of powers that would undo existence. "Dey can't 'old all o' it. It 'appens to people. It 'appened to dis stone too, an' tha world is like dis stone, it 'olds power... but if der's too much power inside it... tha world is like a candle burnin' wiv too much fire... it burns out."
What was once a cold, impassive expression, now suddenly broke into a frown, revealing the concern felt by Quirini. A lesson was taught.
"Think you this is what this is? Too much power caged?"
He remembered again that when the world was young, it held a greater power. "Some people, old people, know some stuff 'bout tha world when it was younger. Dey'll tell you it was stronger, it could 'old more power, so people in it could make more o' it demselves. It didn' bother tha balance. But now tha world is older, weaker, but dis place isn' older. Time doesn' move 'ere like in tha rest o' tha world. Tha great power could be 'ere, but tha old world can't 'old it anymore. If tha young world, tha powerful one, is allowed to get into our old one... it's like a candle again... balance doesn' 'old... an' tha candle burns out."
The gnome asked quietly, almost in reverence of the halfling. "Who are you that you know this?"
"I told ya o' dese old people, 'oo know tha young world. I speak wiv 'em sometimes. Dey exist, 'idden from normal folk. I've also seen wot 'appens when der's too much power in tha world, an' balanace breaks. I've also been warned by beings 'oo can see wot we don't, a bigger picture. Folk 'oo can see tha balance, an' tha danger dat comes to it.", Alton once again spoken the words of Vaast'liax then, "Folk 'oo can see when der's storm, fire an' winter commin' to tha same place again, at tha same time...", and finally, the words of Quirini herself, "at a crossroad."
"And what think you ought to be done, wise one?"
The answer was simple.
"Leave tha young world seperate from our agin' one, an' tha knowledge it 'olds wiv it."
In simple words – leave the valley alone.
"Tha balance never breaks itself. Der's always a... usurper... someone 'oo interferes..."
This is something the gnome knew and understood. "Yes. Always there is. Something external to the balance. The balance always in equilibrium is."
Alton nodded. The lessons were taught, and perhaps the fruits of those lessons would reveal themselves in the future.
~ * ~
Something external to the balance… were there really beings who were external to the balance? Or perhaps they were merely strong enough to tilt it the way they wished, from the inside?
Are gods beyond the balance? Are mythical creatures? Are Mortals? Or only those among them powerful enough for Balance to notice?
Was Alton external to the balance? Did he help cause the cataclysm that would have unmade the world, or was he simply the hand of a greater power?
No, it was his choice. He opened the door, when he could have done. The power was not his, but the choice remained in his hands nonetheless.
Could Quirini see it?
The conversation did not end with the lesson. Alton had to learn something as well. It was the task he was given, for the sake of the world.
"... you said you've seen me before, even though we didn' meet..."
"Not you. Traces of you."
"Can you explain?"
Quirini could only respond in the way she knew best. "Oui yna y lnuccnuytc ouincamv…You..." She traced a few symbols in the air with her finger. Then came something Alton knew well. He'd seen it more than once, in his mind, in his dreams… or were those dreams at all?
The Doors.
"Doors. Place there is. Doors. Some there are who... potential... have... and... achieve. Doers. Movers. Affectors. Catalysts." The gnome struggled with her words, "Some into the background fade. Never their lives distinguished are. And some in time and destiny... stand out."
"I'd say dose are tha people... external to balance."
Alton could only think of Quirini. Did she fade into the background, only to appear at the time where she would stand out, open the right door, and affect the world? To open the doors to the valley would be to open the wrong door, of this Alton was sure.
Could it be someone else, who has yet to reveal himself?
Could Quirini see traces of such usurper as well?
Or was it too early to see such traces?
"Sometimes. And sometimes not. Sometimes... They are they who balance have to force back into place." As she answered his question, she gazed on him as Zephyr gazed on her ceaselessly. A meaningful gaze. He realized what she meant by that look.
"Not always by itself it rights, the balance. Sometimes assistance needs. They who strong enough are. But also wise enough are. To tip it back, but not too far. Just enough to right again be. But not too much."
"Aye..." Alton looked at the stone in his hand, "But jus' like dey can right it, dey can break it..."
A roc flew overhead. Not one of the ice rocs that soared those skies in alarming frequency, but a pure rock, untouched by the other sisters. Zephyr took off, and flew after him. It was a sign, perhaps, to end this conversation for now.
"Much thought you have given me. And many answers." Quirini dipped her head in a respectful bow, "Your wisdom for I am grateful. Perhaps again we speak?"
Alton returned the gesture. "You've given me answers as well. We'll speak again, for sure."
"Then I to my studies return. To walk in balance, may you."
~ * ~
There it ended.
Alton followed the roc along with Zephyr.
Quirini was left alone in the snow, in that timeless vale, to study its mystery. Perhaps she would be the interloper, even if she does not mean it. Perhaps it is someone else, who has yet to be revealed.
Those questions would be answered another day.
Enough lessons were taught for now. |
WickedArtist: I think he needs a proper elf.
WickedArtist: A christmas elf!
Tasra: Any sort of elf that actually smiles ;o
Gasp! Scandalous!!! |
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News #2
Posted: 26 Sep 2006 09:34 AM |
A breath of winter. The grass frosts over in The Great Plains. The Fields of the Dead miraculously untouched, in perpetual bloom as always.
Deep in the Midor Mountains, earth shifts and slides once more, a year now since the quakes and disasters that rocked the world.
All the birds have gone from Midor Mountains.
* * *
The Gnome in Sunix Valley has apparently abandoned her studies of the gate, and is often seen wandering The Great Plains instead. |
The subculture of my dreams
Is waiting for me to fall asleep.
I know you're scared—you should be.
I know you're scared. |
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News #3
Posted: 01 Oct 2006 02:02 PM |
In addition to the snow over the Plains, magic seems to be going more awry than ever. The magical sparks in front of Gorlath Keep have intensified in brightness. Adventurers wandering through the Plains also report seeing terrifying gargantuan things made of ice manifesting out of thin air and then vanishing just as swiftly.
Only the brave or the foolhardy dare to rest on the Plains, warned by these alarming rumours. |
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News #4
Posted: 08 Oct 2006 12:02 AM |
The following travel warning is posted in major civilised areas in the south, such as Brandibuck, Icy Vale and Ladriel. It is also posted in The Four Winds Inn:
ALL TRAVELLERS ARE WARNED THAT GARGANTUAN SNOWMEN HAVE BEEN SIGHTED ON THE GREAT PLAINS AND THE AREA IS BELIEVED TO BE HAZARDOUS TO TRAVEL THROUGH. AVOID GOING THROUGH OR STAYING IN THE GREAT PLAINS AT ALL COSTS.
FURTHERMORE, THE INTENSITY OF WILD MAGIC IN THE AREA APPEARS TO HAVE INCREASED. MAGIC USERS SHOULD AVOID CASTING SPELLS WITHIN THE VICINITY OF THE GREAT PLAINS. |
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Balance of Power
Posted: 14 Oct 2006 10:21 AM |
~ Part II: Wide Awake ~
When the quakes had shaken the world last year, they'd awoken something long dormant, like the shifting of earth that awakens a sleeping volcano. Here, in the mountains that had once been known as The Nanihil Fihdail Mountains, something old and forgotten had been buried. Here, in a cradle of earth and rock, something that ought to have remained undisturbed had slumbered peacefully.
Something that made thunderclaps when it yawned, caused tremors when it turned over in its sleep, something with breath like hurricanes.
Imagine power, raw power, in the hands of a child. The kind that mages can only dream of. The kind that makes the gods envious, or queasy, or alarmed—depending on their inclination.
An innocence more dangerous than malice. An ignorance more dangerous than cunning.
One last shudder shook the mountains, then the ever-shifting maze of rock stood still once more.
Down in Ikarian Bay, one by one, the ships began to ready themselves as if moved by unseen hands. |
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Balance of Power: Excremental Exposure
Posted: 16 Oct 2006 04:25 PM |
He ran, beard waving over one shoulder, and flowing mane of light brown hair whipping back and forth like a restless tail. His legs worked like pistons to propel him onward, and his chest heaved with every deep intake, and release of breath. Masterfully weaving through the forest trees of Mirghul, the mage fled, filled with gut bubbling fear. As he passed a small rise his eyes spotted two figures standing in the wood. One, a woman, in red, her blond hair wavy and groomed. The other a man with black hair, and equally dark attire.
He drew a deep breath and cried, "Flee! Run for yer lives!".
Wasting no time, the woman heaved her accomplice to his feet, and they followed the intrepid wizard. Not too far away the sounds of crashing trees and underbrush were easily heard, and accompanied by thundering footfalls.
"This way, children," he chided, but they were not infants, "to the rangers, quickly!"
Their uneven pattering of footfalls made hollow sounds as they walked over the shoddy wooden platform, and to the large longhouse that kept the rangers of Mirghul. The woman and her partner stopped by the door, allowing the wizard to move past, and open the gateway to possible safety. The warmth of the open hearth, and the smell of home cooked food greeted them as they collapsed inside, closing the door behind them.
"Wild magic," the wizard explained through gulping breaths of air. Those two words to suffice for anything that might be abnormal.
In stride, Bereil, his long hair, and beard wagging with his undulate movement confronted the first ranger there. His frantic words set the ranger from feeling dubious, to curious, and when the smell reached the doors the excitement settled. The woodsman bolted the main door, and called to his fellows. Another woman leapt out of another room, with a two handed mace to join her colleague, and a diminutive gnome with a staff took a curious stance next to the elven woman. Then, with what seemed to be a practiced effort the rangers built a quick barricade of furniture.
Satisfied with the turn of events, the wizard settled in a corner to quickly prepare a couple much needed spells. He patted himself down, and recalled to surface the various components needed. Tucking a finger bone into his breast pocket he returned just in time to see the doors turn to splinters, and battered down. A quick glance to the two elves showed them to be the mages they were; magic writhed over their bodies; a concord of defensive enchantments. Surprisingly they both held weapons, and appeared prepared to use them.
The stench announced the arrival of what hunted them. It was just seeping through the doors, those inside could catch faint wiffs, and it steadily grew. Now it was undeniable, taking almost corpreal form in the doorway, heralds that could have risen from the sewage of Port Royale. As soon as it arrived, the prelude wriggled its way past, and its sources now stood in the doorway. Two of them, their footfalls thudding, and squelching on the wooden planking. Giants, easily taller than two full grown men, their bodily fluids dripping off, and pooling at their feet. Pure excrement; fecal elementals. The faces of those present could only be described as a cacophany of expressions that are seen on anyone who has accidentally walked into the half-orc's section of the public washrooms, and a grim determination to survive this horror.
Without trepidation the two rangers, and the two elven mages squared off with the abominable elementals of excrement. With the barricades in place the elementals had only one path to press into the ranger home, and that was blocked by the four stirdy combatants.
Bereil watched, calculating, and when he judged the battle at a turning point he flexed his fingers. Uttering an incatation, and sprinkling some crushed jade in the air, he gestured to one of the excrement elementals. A massive phantasmal, green hand coalesced into existence, and enclosed around one of the excrement elementals. The hand squeezed with phenominal strength. Drawing the finger bone from his breast pocket, he worked a second spell, this one with a sharp, lilting chant. He aimed the finger at the second elemental, the bone became a bright ember, and then crumbled into ash. A red glow suffused itself into the elemental, then, a little pop sounded from it, and the monstrosity sagged, then collapsed in on itself. Its twin, now could not withstand the pressure of the phantasmal hand, and exploded in a shower of matter best left in a pit.
Two elves, and one ranger remained standing in the aftermath. The ranger woman had been knocked aside in the final moments of the fight, and now lay in the expanding puddle of matter on the wooden floor. Her companion expressed his concern, barking an ignored order to help the woman to the Sunbringers.
"Are there more of them?" the ranger then asked.
"Perhaps; I am unsure. I fled as soon as they had appeared," Bereil admitted, even as he moved forward to drag the ranger woman behind the barricade. A quick glance to the elves told him that they were caring for themselves. He released his grip on the fallen woman, letting her fall, even as her male counterpart began issuing orders to the three of them. A gnome in the Mirghul rangers traditional wear bounced past them to scout outdoors.
Before any could answer an agreement to his demands, the ranger hefted his comrade over his shoulders, and carried her back to the barracks. Leaving the three mages with an order to strengthen the barricade. Furniture, anything they could get, was added to the make-shift barrier. Not a minute after they began, the female elf slumped tiredly into an awaiting chair near the fireplace. Bereil let a candlebra fall onto the barricade, just as the gnome returned.
"Things things things. Orange, purple and green things," she sang, and skipped off, leaving the elf, and the wizard baffling over what it was. The answer arrived.
Snap, it pounced inside, eyes wide and gleaming with pronounced madness. Tousled black hair topped its dark skinned pate, and its clothes were a mix-miss-match of orange, purple, and green. The threat in question was an astounding three feet tall. A coiled whip unfurled from one arm, the gnome's arm pulled back, and a loud crack-snap of the whip sounded. In a flash the elven male collapsed with a spray of blood. Bereil's eyes flew wide, and he shot the sylables to an invisibility spell, and vanished from sight in the blink of an eye. Quickly, he backpedalled into the large room, mind leaping and racing to various possibilities.
Hopping after him madly, the gnome said, voice jittery with some malformed eagerness, "Smell you, smell you, I can smell you!"
A quick glance at himself confirmed that the terrible smell was indeed coming from him.
The gnome pranced after him, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air, and shrill voice bespoked with madness.
Bereil pulled a sword-hilt from a pocket in his robe. He threw it to the ground, flourishing his other hand for the conjuration. The hilt froze in the air, and spun in rapid rotations, as it finished its eighth spin a crackling, black blade of darkness flashed out. It now hovered in the air, the black blade.
A malicious grin crossed Bereil's features, "Can ye dance a marmaladian jig?" he rhasped, and mentally gave the sword a command. The black blade began to slash at the gnome, who vainly tried to dance away, but the weapon was tireless. A slip, and the weapon cut through the madenned gnome with the ease of a hot knife through butter. Once its task was complete, it fell to the ground, blade vanishing, and became once more an animateless hilt. Bereil bent to retrieve it. As he stood up he found the elven woman standing by his side, she was unfazed by her companion's fall. Then again, neither was Bereil.
"What on Vives was that...?" her calm question, as she gave the remains a quick study.
"A gnome gone mad."
"That's specific," the sarcastic reply, and she looked to the door. Bereil edged to the doorway, and gave a careful peek outside. He swung back in immediately. There were more, and so he explained. They exchanged some rapid small talk, and devised the most common plan. Once they were outside the barricade, the wizard pulled another crate to close it. He turned around and discovered that the elf vanished. Even as he left the ranger home he found no sign of her, and soon found himself wandering about aimlessly, thankfully finding no sign of the gnomes.
"Squee," the sound allerted him to the new threat. Bereil froze in his tracks in fear. What would cause gnomes, one of Vives creatures naturally attuned to magic decide to go elsewhere. He spun around, and bolted back to the Mirghul rangers home. She was inside the doorway when he returned. He screamed, twice, voice frantic and full of dread. The elven woman gave a glance out the door, then together they scrambled over the barricade with not a moment to spare.
Slightly elargened by what had created them, yet deadly, incisors snapping together. Luminescent purple fur set them apart from their natural brethren. The two standing mages backed up away from the barricade that held the monstrosities at bay, already the anti-magic fields generated by the purple badgers devoured their protective enchantments. A moment of serendipity, and Bereil began collecting various bits of wood and wire from his multitude of pockets. He affixed the instruments together, and loaded a bolt crafted by the industrious elf Sywyn Siadys'varion. The bolt's shaft was ashen wood, and reinforced with glyphic steel in order to sustain the enchantments placed on them. A masterminded ammunition, and he quickly discovered that the price was quite sensible.
His first shot caught one of the badgers in the head, the body was launched back from the force of the bolt, and the slap of a slab of meat resounded as it hit the wall behind it. Squeels of protest, and gnashing of teeth followed from the other purple badgers. The second shot pinned another badger to the ground, its colorful fluids spurting out of the edges of the near fatal wound. A third shot took the final badger with a messy finale.
With that inimical stance that seemed to come natural to her, the elven woman began asking questions. Bereil replied easily in his quipping manner.
"We need aid," he stated bluntly, and began to walk for the back door. As soon as he arrived to it, with the elf at his heels, a woman stepped through, clad in strange leathers, and a glittering staff in hand. Her voice rose; shouting over her shoulder before bringing her inquisitive gaze down on the mages.
"What in Nethar'u is going on here?!" the sunbringer demanded.
"Wild magic. 'Tis attracting all sorts of wild creatures from various corners of Vives," Bereil explained. Such is a part of the explenation, he added to himself.
"Yeah and lots of mosnters on the loose. Look, you're a cleric, or anyone else you brought?" the elf asked, only now voicing her concern for her fallen comrade.
The sunbringer swung her gaze to the elf, "Yeah, why?"
"What do we need a cleric for?" Bereil glibbed, dismissing the body laying by the doorway. The two women had already gone their way, and were approaching the body. He watched as the sunbringer first remarked on the stench, and then, to his surprise, simply slapped the elven man on the side of the head; who, in turn, jerked awake almost immediately. Voice shaky, and still regaining his balance, the male elf wondered aloud.
Short talk followed, none of it very relevent.
Finally, the sunbringer said, "Roight you kids, if you wanna go out, I suggest the window."
Skeptical, but in agreement, Bereil decided it was his time to leave. He weaved his way upstairs, the windows were tinted and glossy, adorned with blurry images dyed in the glass. The wizard backed up to give himself a running start, dramatic appearance was everything. Dashing ahead, he dived through the window. Glass splintered and shattered on all sides of him, cutting his skin, catching in his hair, and tragically shredding his robes. He landed in a moaning heap on the wooden platform outside, shards of glass scattered around him, under him, and on top of him. It was nigh time to wait for the regenerative enchantments to take hold. A gross miscalculation, he thought, I should have preceded the leap with a fireball.
After pulling several slivers of glass from his persons, he eventually felt well enough to rise, and with the aid of his staff, he did.
Bereil Yadashem hobbled away, considering the ramifications of the growing problem with wild magic, the balance of the world, and entirely grateful to live another day.
((Super thanks to Fictrix who did everything, from the monsters, playing the npcs, actually making a barricade, and the sound effects of leaping daringly out of a window, the glass landing all around him... it was awsome. Also to Sulanna and Valetharion (spelling right?), who were tossed in the middle of this great, rivetting adventure.)) |
CHOO CHOO!
- - - - - -
Bereil Yadashem.
Markus Mortriety, Herald of Novus Aristi. |
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Balance of Power: Between Hope and Despair
Posted: 26 Oct 2006 01:58 AM |
Between Hope and Despair
Djinn moves blindly through Brandibuck Vale, the world beyond the black rim of her cowl a meld of grey shades. Grasses wither to mud on the hillside. The guards plod a rutted route through the town. Kalila looks up at her periodically and mews for her attention, but to no avail. Nothing matters to Djinn but the bundle of herbs clutched in her hands, the black cohosh. The cohosh's fetid, medicinal odor draws a throng of bees and fat, lazy, blue flies in her wake. They follow her into Brandibuck's apothecary.
Drogo glances at this shadow of a woman as she enters, and looks away. A black panther follows her in. He blinks and looks back.
"Djinn?" he asks, his voice scattered by the bubbling cauldron.
He looks more closely at her. Her clothing is the same, a bit muddy, but her usual black veil, and robes. Its not her garb, but her manner that is odd. She moves like a dead thing, as if the very spirit were sucked out of her. Her eyes are lost in the darkness of her robes with none of their typical shine. The panther sits to watch Djinn work at the alchemy table. Drogo and the panther exchange glances, once. He shudders, and returns to work.
"None o' my business," he mutters.
Djinn works with a dull certainty. The alcohol is prepared, and then the cohosh distilled. Even in her state, her hands manage their work well enough blind. As they work, she drifts in a nightmare of Maldovian shades, hounds and spiders. The nightmare blooms cancerous around her heart. After grasping the cohosh, she had fallen. Before the Sunbringers saved her, a mite of shadow perhaps, or the tendril of a Creeper, some of that nothingness must have slipped inside her, and grown. Even now she feels it like an angry hornet tearing at her soul.
The cohosh distilled, she lays out the reagents for heal wort on the alchemy table. She sets several glass vials in a stand. This will save her. This potion can cure anything. Yet the nightmare blinds her. Her hands are not accustomed to the recipe. Perhaps it is the hesitancy in her fingers. Perhaps she boils one of the reagents too long. Perhaps her heart is not engaged with the work. Whatever the reason, the result is the same. The liquid in each of the vials turns a viscous grey.
Her efforts spoiled, the shadow of despair overtakes her. "A useless harem-girl," she says and angrily gathers up her things. Drogo watches her leave with relief.
Outside the door to the apothecary, Djinn bumps into Alton Highhill. He engages her in conversation, and she responds reflexively, distracted and angry. They ramble on about recent events until Salt wanders upon them. She pulls within herself as the two continue the discussion on their own.
The darkness veils her eyes. The nightmare spiders spin soporifics over her mind. Her body goes on without her. Engrossed in their own conversation neither Salt or Alton notice anything is amiss. She sleepwalks with them to Ladriel tower where she awakes at a table. Ulalume sits next to her.
Salt and Alton are still trying to relate current events into a unified thread when at last Alton stops and muses, "Not one usurper. Many usurpers."
"Usurpers?" asks Salt.
Djinn looks to Alton and her eyes shine for the first time. The realization snaps her from the darkness, and ignites her mind. "Yes," she exclaims. "Change."
"Aye. Da enemy dat's gonna bring 'bout tha change."
"Thats it." Djinn leans back and lets the light fall on her face. The change was arising from numerous sources.
"I thought it was one thing. Tha 'idden vale at Sunix. Now I'm thinkin' its lots o' things."
"It is not just one enemy. It is a rise of different points of view," she says to the ceiling.
"Tha Glyph doesn' matter alone." Alton rambles on, "Jus' like tha vale doesn', or tha elven spell doesn'."
"What elven spell, Alton?"
"Balance o' power. Winter not from tha Ice Witch, Fire not from Naruth's realm, storm not by Vilyave. You were supposed to be der, Salt. When tha elves sent us to Nethar'u to look fer "Dana's Remains"."
Salt's expression clouds over. "You went on that journey?"
"Aye. Wot do you know 'bout its REAL purpose?"
Salt shakes his head very slightly, "...only that I could not get involved in Elvalia's... pursuit of that witch's punishment. I couldn't take one side of the other. I'm too much in the middle."
"It was never 'bout Dana."
"Not about-"
"It was a lie. A ruse to get us to steal sumfin' from 'elkris."
Salt slaps the top of his head in surprise.
"Aye." Ulalume nods. "We were used... to obtain some fragment of a powerful spell."
Alton continues the tale, "We went down to 'er temple. Tha elves said she might've stolen Dana's remains to keep 'er, Brimscale's child, from returnin' to life. But only me an' tha humans were in tha dark. Tha elves? Dey knew wot dey came for. An' when Frezt came to guard 'is mistress' temple, an' I asked 'im o' Dana's remains, dey presented tha REAL question. Tha spell fragment."
"It is true...," adds Ulalume, "and the one who was supposed to lead us froze like a coward before the wyrm..."
"'course, 'e 'ad no intention o' givin' it away, especially at tha presence o' a Vilyavian an' a Brimscale child, until our old friends came. You remember 'em. Silmarwen an' Itarille?"
"The ancients. Their end will likely be with this world," says Djinn.
"Forced Frezt to give up 'is fragment, scared as 'e was from battlin' tha two dragons, knowin' tha results if dey do."
"They stood down Frezt, in the temple to Helkris?!" Salt speaks incredulously.
"You know wot would 'appen if dey fought. Same thing dat 'appened at tha battle o' tha three sisters."
"And now, rather than being in the hands of a powerful dragon in the bowels of the earth, this dangerous spell fragment is in tel'Elena," says Ulalume.
"A fragment o' fire, Salt. Fire not from tha realms o' fire?"
Salt swallows, stroking his temples and nodding at Alton's words.
Zubeida laughs. "Alton....you told me earlier that Vilyave heals you. I do not think that is true. We heal ourselves."
Alton blinks.
"Fire is the same. It does not come from Naruth. Before the lady of flame and spite and lust... you could draw a spark from flint."
"I dunno 'ow gods give priests powers, but Vilyave gives me mine, regardless. I didn' find my 'divine self'."
Djinn shakes her head.
"But yer righ'. Naruth adopted fire as 'er domain. She didn' create it. Still, tha intention was clear."
Djinn presses her point. "Each of these powers exist without the gods, and it will be up to mortals to carry the arts of wielding this power when the gods pass on."
"Tha fire came from tha realms o' 'elkris, not Naruth."
Salt looks to Ulalume to see if she is following any more closely than he is. "Could the glyph that Desthedes desires be a portion of this spell? I'm still trying to make that connection."
"From what I understand, Desthades wants to supplant Gukathul, not destroy the whole world," answers Ulalume.
"The Glyph does not destroy the world," Djinn states.
"Dat's tha whole point, Ula. Tha elven spell, on its own, is meanin'less."
"Yes...," says Salt. "Ula's words have fallen into line with Lady Djinn's...."
"Its just one big mess o' great power dat will cause some disaster, but not tha Change. But add to dat everyfin' else. A demilich tryin to supplant a god, an ancient vale dat might be openin', a lich's glyph... an' we got too much power."
"Are you speaking of the usurpation of these powers, out of the hands of gods and into the hands of men and elves?"
Alton also answers, "I'm talkin' 'bout too many powers bein' unleashed to tha world all at once, causin' wot 'appened at tha dragons' battle."
Salt flustered breathes out in exasperation, "...the elves have moved first... They perceived what was happening and have acted. Men will be... men will be..." He rubs his face vigorously.
Alton looks at Salt, "Elves don' know a dang thing 'bout tha disaster. If ya ask me, dey're jus' one o' tha usurpers."
Salt looks to Alton, "Yet, they have acted. They hold the fire in their hands!"
"Usurpers. 'e used tha word usurpers. Y'know, when someone wants to take a place not rightfully 'is?"
"Vaast'liax did? Or... Frezt?"
"Vaast'liax."
"Usurpers...," muses Djinn, "what does that word mean to you Alton?"
"Like tha demilich tryin' to supplant a god?" suggests Alton with a shrug.
"Gukathul is broken, his throne empty," counters Djinn.
"But 'e was a god, an' 'is throne is meant fer gods, not mortals, or former mortals."
"What one man calls an Usurper another calls a Liberator. God is just a title we give to them, Alton. Just as Usurper is just a title the gods give to mortals who take the same steps they took once upon a time."
"Naruth took fire to 'erself as 'er domain. Fire is 'er realm, an' she controls it if she wants. Wot if dat spell... is outside 'er control? Usurp 'er domain."
Salt strokes his forehead and speaks absently into the air, "...Midoran, just a man... Midoran, just a man... yes, it comes clearer..."
"Exactly," Djinn says to Salt.
"Midoran jus' a wot?"
"A man," answers Ulalume.
"A man?" Alton is apoplectic.
Salt's words tumble out. "Midoran, Alton. His divinity was never established..."
"Wot? 'e stole 'is divinity?"
Salt speaks loudly, "He was only a man!"
Ulalume says, "They all did, Alton."
"A man? From where?"
Salt looks sickened at Ulalume. "How can this be?" Salt asks shaking his head.
"It is the way of things," says Djinn. "Things change."
"Wot? Was 'e a dang Aristi discoverin' 'is divine little self a bit too much?"
"Or perhaps an enlightened Aristi who saw a way to save his people," suggests Djinn.
"It matters not," states Ulalume. "Whether we four here understand the ways of the so-called-gods is of little consequence."
Salt swallows and says dryly, "He was a usurper... only we did not have a word for it, before now...."
"Or was he a liberator?" Djinn poses to Salt.
"Usurper... oh, definitely an usurper... Oh, Blanche, Blanche, poor Blanche...." Salt rubs his face.
Djinn replies, "Not all are strong enough to force the change. Not all are strong enough to survive the change."
Salt stares back at her stupefied by her comments.
Alton stands finished with the endless conversation. "Der's one thing I really wanna know," he says. "We're goin' to Aurora's palace. At leas' I am. We need some clue, an' to do sumfin' 'bout it. If things keep goin' without intervention, dat Change could be one fer Syn's favor."
"Please... what change?" asks Ulalume.
"The world is changing," answers Djinn. "Even the world lives and dies by the cycle."
"Tha balance o' power is shiftin'," says Alton. "Vaast'liax warned me 'bout it."
Salt muses off into space, "The loosing of these powers from their divine moorings. We can effect the outcome. We can guide the change... We can choose our gods?"
"First, I want to find out something. A winter not from tha Ice Witch. Its one o' tha signs. I wanna find out if 'elkris really isn' up to it. An' at tha same time, I need to find a seer to give me a clue. Wot better person than a mistress o' time?" Alton fidgets about eager to be off.
"Why you've got a seer in your back pocket, Alton. Not that I'm the jealous type...," says Salt with a laugh. "Where is this Aurora?"
"Near Icy Vale, at tha palace," says Alton. "Are we goin' then? Well... Alton's Will Be Done! Lets go." |
Famous last words:
Mykal> it's my new wireless router.
* > Mykal has quit (Ping timeout)
Vulpina> Hey!! IRC didn't boot m.....
* > Vulpina has quit (Exit: DarkMyst WebChat) |
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Re: Balance of Power: The Neutral City
Posted: 29 Oct 2006 06:12 PM |
Salt dreamed of the gates beyond the Sunix Woods, where Quirini held her vigil. The wood was dark and horribly silent. Then, something beyond the gates was crashing them open. It occurred with great violence in interminable slow motion.
He dreamed of Haven, the flows of lava, the Hush Tunnels and its inhabitants. Had the Aristi activated the guardians of that place, or had they come awake on some other account? The name of those mountains… their ancient name, before they were called in ignorance the Mountains of Midoran by men who saw them ranging in the distance… was Nanihil Fihdial. Men in their ignorance had no memories of the manufactory in the Nanihil Fihdial. The Aristi only appreciated its special qualities. The shifting mountains made Haven impossible to find for most navigators. Early on they had experimented with compasses that could remember its location and give a series of bearings that allowed Haven to be relocated. Early on, when it seemed Salt had much to contribute to the Aristi resistance, he had found those compasses to be infuriating. Nobody understood precisely how they functioned. And, they were not secure. Anyone could use a memory compass to find Haven once it was calibrated. Now one reached Haven with help from the gnome named Bumber-something.
The quiet tunnels were useful… the veins of ore and the facilities were useful. The derelict things were curious, to be sure, as was the fleet…
What controlled the rising and falling of those mountains, the shifting and sliding slopes that moved them into new alignments each time Salt visited? They had presumed it was random, a monumental subterfuge aimed at concealing the manufactory.
Gooseflesh raised on his arms as he relived the dream visions. The vision had first come in Quirini’s presence, there on the Great Plains with Alton, Ulalume and the other right-sized, Fennigan. He had tried to capture the images on paper then. They were planted then, in his mind, but he needed sleep for them to develop. So first came the images, then the drawings, and now the dreams.
* * * * *
Alton, Vilyave’s priest, and the paladin named Ulalume arrived with Salt at the Great Plains, to find the mystic Quirini Zasvadioc, formerly of Sunix Woods, keeping the company of a Halfling named Fennigan. But this was not the first thing that obtained their attention.
“Oh… Oh no!” Salt exclaimed.
Alton said shrilly, “Ack! DID YA SEE DAT?!”
To which Salt replied, “Yes, I did!”
“What was it,” Ulalume inquired.
“A snow… giant… thing…” said Alton.
“Same thing was here before,” Fennigan said to them.
Quirini, formerly of the Sunix Woods, planted her stave against the ground and pushed to her feet, seeming to notice the newcomers for the first time. She made a busy, agitated clicking sound, and said whirring in the gnomish tongue of her creators, “Funca dra naht dra dayn dra nevd…”
Lights moved in the distance… the place where reality had been breached through the death of a dragon, some years ago. Salt knew very little of the story. Alton, it seemed, knew more.
Another hulking thing the size and shape of an elemental of earth walked into visibility, hulked along for ten or twenty steps, and then vanished walking without breaking its stride. “Whatever they are,” Fennigan said, “they’re not aggressive.”
“I saw that thing…” Salt began hesitatingly. “Did it just appear…?”
“An’ disappear,” Alton finished.
“Alton,” Salt said, “what if we are witnessing the usurp-“
“Winter… fire… an’ storm,” intoned Alton.
Quirini cocked her head rigidly and focused on Alton. “Funca ed palusac?” Her voice had a curious grinding sound, like a clock having its arms forced round and round. Salt considered that he had never heard her speak before now.
“Quirini, wot’s goin’ on ‘ere?” asked the Vilyavean.
“Yc E dumt oui,” Quirini responded in the same whirring, piping chatter.
Salt stroked his lip a few times and then pointing to punctuate his question, said to Quirini, “…Nanihil Fihdial?”
She clearly startled, giving one hacking sort of shudder, like a machine that has been shut down too suddenly.
Salt repeated, pointing east towards the Midor Mountains. “Nanihil Fihdial?”
Quirini’s head swiveled towards Salt.
“Wot is it ya said?” asked Alton.
Salt swallowed uncertainly.
“Fryd tu oui ghuf uv fryd meac pahaydr drana?” Quirini asked with a soft screech, a whir and a click.
“It is the name for the mountain range where… Ulalume, it is the mountains that give a home to the Aristi!”
“Nanihil Fihdial,” Quirini said again, in the language of her makers.
“Where tha’ Neutral City is?” Alton asked.
Why did he call it that? Salt wondered.
“Knayd Paycd,” Quirini said, and there was a softness and smoothness in her voice that had not been there a moment ago. The clicking, grinding, whirring sound was absent. Now it was a soft piping of fluent Gnomish.
“What significance does it have,” Ulalume asked of Alton.
“Automata,” Alton replied. “An old Gnomish city. A site o’ great power.”
“Automata?” Ulalume queried.
Quirini strained and spoke in the common tongue: “Factory. The.” Then she added: “Artificial.”
“Aye, tha Neutral City,” Alton said, “a place where massive golems are formed.”
“Sounds like Haven,” the paladin said, “Big golems running around everywhere…”
Salt added, “Ulalume, that is what those mountains were called, before they were called the Midor Mountains. It is said some old ones were able to control the flow of lava and reconfigure the mount—” Salt staggered suddenly, perhaps in realization.
Alton plowed ahead in a tirade… “Which the Aristi carelessly discovered an’ let out tha secret!”
Fennigan spoke up. “The place X was looking for out on the coast?”
“Artificial. They. The great illusionists.” Quirini was speaking a little more fluently. She caught everyone’s attention, easily.
“The golems are illusional?” Alton asked?
Ulalume was speechless. “No, they’re very real,” she eventually responded.
“They,” said Quirini. “No. Yes. What reality is?”
“Depends on wot you consider to be real,” Alton answered. “Are creepers real?”
“A spell to make. One believe they are dead,” said Quirini, “Still makes one dead.”
“The artificial. The illusion of life. Mobility, motivation, a will. Yes…” Salt concluded, “Illusory.”
“Emminuco,” Quirini said. Salt repeated it behind her.
Alton said, “I see. Machines…”
“Oh I despise illusions,” Salt hissed. Emminuco… I never wanted to know the Gnomish word for illusion!
Quirini gripped her strange staff with both hands and nodded. She was looking at Salt.
Was she actually agreeing with him?
Alton asked looking at a hulking specter moving from no origin to no destination, “So are these giants… ‘elkrisian, or escaped golems?”
“Are they there at all, Alton?” Salt asked.
“They,” said Quirini. “This. They. Not her doing. Imperfections. In time’s design.”
“Time,” said Alton, “time is ‘elkris.”
“She. She does not. Imperfections. Tolerate. Desa, Helkris.”
“Right,” Fennigan said, “then why doesn’t she fix it?”
Ulalume nodded in agreement.
“Why would she,” Alton asked.
“To fix. The clash of. Power against power. To meddle, another disaster.” Quirini then lapsed into silent stillness, looking – or facing – towards Alton.
“Time, perception, and illusion? Power against power?” Salt voiced his confusion.
Alton held out the focus stone given to him by Vilyave. It had once held the charge of a Blue Dragon’s breath. It had absorbed enough magical energy during the Battle of the Sisters to diffuse the calamity and perhaps save creation. “Power against power, remember? Time is ‘elkris. Illusion are tha golems. Dey are imperfect in ‘er mind.”
Salt nodded without conviction. “And so… Helkris fights them back. This frost… it is real.”
“Or perhaps. Side effect.” Quirini said. “Great power. Beneath. Nanihil Fihdial.”
Salt swallowed and looked rather desperately at Ulalume. “You’ve been there… you’ve seen it!”
She was uncertain. “I have?” she asked.
“Haven’t you?” Salt asked in small tones.
“You mean… below… in Ferein?” said the paladin.
“Haven!” Salt responded exasperated, then clamped a hand over his mouth.
“I want to see it,” Alton demanded with the conviction that Salt and the others were lacking.
Ulalume followed, “I have been in the hush tunnels… To be honest, I haven’t spent much time there. Sort of stuffy for my tastes.”
“Ha-venn?” Quirini repeated. “Hush?” Then she said strangely in the tongue of her creators, “Ricr. Drec bmyla. Dra hysa. Ec ghufh.”
Fennigan looked thoroughly confused.
“The Factory, Quirini,” Salt said. The place where…” The seer trailed off, troubling over it.
“Haven,” Alton said, “…a place where tha Novus Aristi live. Tha hush tunnels seem to lead to a cave beneath… Nanihil Fihdail. Tha factory.”
Quirini’s eyes lit at the words. “Vylduno,” she said. “Ricr.”
“Vylduno,” Salt said. “Vylduno means factory?”
“Ehhh…” Alton grew very much distracted. “Vanish. Vanish! SHOO!” he shouted over Salt’s shoulder.
“Oh dear… is something happening behind me?”
“SHOO!!” hollered the hin, as a titanic creature cast Salt suddenly and swiftly into its lengthening shadow. Though it was night, the moon showed brightly in the special wintery way that is seen in the snowy lands.
Salt gripped his gnarled staff with both hands and shut his eyes. “Lies,” he said fiercely and perhaps defensively. “This is a lie!”
“Huh?” returned Alton.
Salt opened his eyes. The hulking creature had gone, vanished in mid-stride. Other atmospheric effects had sprung up. Now in addition to the creatures there were lightening strikes, and other things, perhaps falling stars…
“Wot do ya mean?” Alton asked Salt.
“Lies?” Ulalume repeated. “Illusions?”
“Tha frost ain’ real?” Alton asked incredulously. “Tha lightenin’ an’ storm ain’ real?”
Then Alton said intuitively, “Tha Factory… creates illusions?”
“It’s some kind of perceptual flare-up,” Salt said. “Fuel on the fire of perception… but perception is stronger than lies. Yes… yes…” Salt’s hands relaxed their white-knuckle grip on his staff.
“I don’ get it,” Alton said. The gnomish automata was wearing a blank look. “Why doesn’t Quirini see it?”
“It’s obvious,” Fennigan said suddenly. “Listen to the sound of her voice.”
Salt rubbed his head. “Was she really speaking? I wonder…” The seer peered off towards the Eastern horizon. Into Nanihil Fihdail. Towards Vylduno.
“How do illusions work Alton,” Fennigan asked his fellow hin in a show of canniness.
“I dunno,” Alton replied. “Dey make ya see stuff dat aren’ der.”
“See?” Chirped Quirini. “Not only. Sense. All sense.”
“Work on tha mind,” Alton agreed.
Fennigan nodded. “The mind. So if you can’t see them what’s that mean you’re likely missing?”
Ulalume chewed her lip. Lights of realization were dancing across her face.
Alton blinked. “Yer sayin’ she’s a CONSTRUCT?!”
“I’m guessin,” Fennigan said. “But yeah.”
Salt shuddered. “…never could work those things. Never could resist them either. Illusions. Yes, it seems to be the case, Alton.”
“Is she a construct?” Alton asked. “Or jus’ immune…? Are the gnomes ‘oo built tha Factory immune to its powers?”
“Ways of seeing. Through.” So came Quirini’s reply.
“Yes,” Salt said in a small realization, “Clever... They were clever, the Builders. Showed you how to see through illusions. Oh, a fine Gnomish trick…”
Alton asked, “Quirini, tha people you belong too… those on tha other side o’ tha vale?”
“Belong?”
“Aye, belong. You were lookin’ fer dem, righ’?”
“Hills. Asashi. To belong there.”
Alton pointed to Sunix. “But you were lookin’ fer sumfin’ else too.”
“Felt. Felt as you did. Drawn to the doors.”
“Crossroads,” Alton said.
“There are no crossroads in that place,” Salt corrected. “Are there?”
“Not a crossroad o’ real roads,” Alton responded.
“Time. Fate. Crossroads.”
“Aye,” returned Alton. “But… why did you leave, an’ come ‘ere?”
“You. You to leave it. Wise. Wise advice.”
Alton nodded at Quirini.
“Not to meddle. But. Something. Something behind the gates. I think. Awake.”
And with those words, Salt entered a fugue.
* * * * *
The drawings that he made were unintelligible.
The gates beyond Sunix Woods. Something, beyond the gates, crashing them open.
And the streams of lava moving through Haven were still. The dwellers in the rock – the strange golems, like those appearing and disappearing on the plains – were gone.
The visions were enormous in Salt’s mind, planted firmly yet too large to consider at once. They translated poorly into charcoal sketches.
“’e’s a seer,” Alton said.
“Caan?” Quirini clicked.
“‘e sees things, like time,” Alton said.
“I think if we were to visit Haven right now…” Salt said sketching vigorously, “Vylduno would be empty.”
Salt bent and arranged his drawings onto panels, that together might have a story to tell. “Empty. Empty of these things that stalk and protect it.”
Quirini wore a terrible, frightening lost look on her face. |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Re: Balance of Power: The Neutral City
Posted: 29 Oct 2006 09:56 PM |
| ((oh, how exciting!)) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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News #5
Posted: 31 Oct 2006 08:46 AM |
Odd mechanical creatures have been sighted on The Great Plains, described as round, one-eyed mechanical constructs with vestigial wings. They seem particularly attracted to the strange glowing lights, and also have a tendency to gravitate towards anything or anyone primarily made of or covered in metal.
They also have a tendency to lead adventurers to Midor Coast. |
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