'Twas a chilly night upon the emerald plain that I made my way to the Armen's tavern. The crowd was all the same, but for one man, of peculiar dress and queer face. Over a foaming mug of cream broth, I inquired as to from whence hailed he.
"From? I am from many places my friend. I journeyed many times on a caparisoned mare in my youth to Umma, Nikul, and Murgak. When I was a man, I made war on the Aeolians of the Cyclades, conquered the Fossuls of Mathagartha, and patrolled the peaks of Kish with a band of blades. I saw the gilded fountains of Mafann, drank from the River Aldu which the Elves call Brightwave and the Dwarfs spit in as it carries its watery load from the dark depths below the Mangals. I married a fair haired Alduran girl from the villages of Kanax, then lost her when Ornos fell to the Fethians. In sadness, I journeyed to the mount of sorrows, the place that the ancients call Gol'adatha. But glory took me once more when I beheld the elder ruin of Pharaxes, and my heart grew to love the war crafts once more, and my sword grew to thirst once more for the bronzed necks of the natives of Nush even as my shield longed to feel their sleety arrows. I lorded a host of ten-thousand blades over the stones of Ornos. I slew more men than there sit stars in the sky, when Sin has made her journey ere the horizon. I found the Lost clay pools of Axos, and laid beside the mad queen of Varna even as she made vile sorceries upon the wind. Upon the ashfields of Ranna I made battle upon the Fire Serpent Qalix, and smoking from his corpse I wrenched his ruby eyes to fill my coinpurse."
Hereupon he supped deeply of his mead.
"Alas, my fortune was stolen from me when I next traveled to shaded Elotha, and from there I found myself in Safanna, Memnon, Banana, and then great Maljinn herself. Among the thousand fountains I took up the Ascent. I gained the courtyards, fooling the guards with a stolen nobility, and came within a swords fall of the Empress herself, or one of her illusions. I took a ship from there to Mondatha as a bodyguard to a glass merchant, and found myself next in muddied Kasam among the wurm ridden plains. I found wisdom among my madness and folly at the Salemite Spire in the Gorelands, and among many towered and tiered Orsailles I found new purpose in a scholar named Tamina."
Whereupon he glanced over at a petite maiden sitting down the bar from him.
"Now I find myself in the inn of Oghmal, town of teak, ginseng, and turquoise, temple of bronze and lapis. To learn with my beloved why I left my birthright, my beloved sunshine city, of Eleras. Do not ask me where I am from, for the world is thine mother, and thy feet a father to thee. Ask me where I am going, and maybe then I will pause and tell of my wishes and the true matter of my soul."
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Sunday, July 28, 2013
WoW Hard Mode
ARE YOU TIRED OF MINDLESSLY GRINDING OUT 105 FROST BADGES FOR A NEW TIER PIECE OF SHIT? ARE YOU WEARY OF SHOWING UP FOR THE SAME OLD RAID ONLY TO BE KICKED FOR SUB-PAR DPS IN AN ENVIRONMENT OF ELITIST JERKS? CRY NO MORE FAG, NOW YOU CAN DO WoW HARD MODE! INSTANT SATISFACTION OR ELSE!
Can only do a certain instance once.
Can't accept gold from other people.
Only handle ITEMS within the party.
Can't buy gold or accept gold from players other than the group.
If a designated leader (Gocky) dies, we all lose. (inside joke)
You must physically travel to the dungeon to run it. You may queue for missing roles after travelling to the dungeon.
If you die, you have to delete a piece of gear other than a shirt or tabard. The only exceptions to this are if you are killed in any PvP engagement or are killed with an active Soulstone or Ankh.
You must create a guild for ONLY your group. This is your Adventuring party. Give it a good name, this is how others will know you.
Play the faction/race/class combo you have played the least.
Coordinate professions for each player.
A group of 3-5 people are ideal.
No PvP gear.
No Auction House.
ONLY AESTHETIC ADDONS.
You must use /say or /yell at all times.
The party must group up and quest together once they venture out of their race's starter zone.
Once a party member reaches level 50, they must wait for the rest of the party to reach level 50. Once the party has reached level 50, they must complete the introductory Frostwolf (AV) quests together.
Any player who quits the hard mode shall be written down in Guild info as deceased, with their last cause of death as the cause.
There is no limit on the amount of players who can have specific gathering professions, but only 1 player each may have a certain primary profession. (Only 1 Engineer, only 1 Alchemist). Hard mode players cannot use the services of people not in their group.
The group can retire (stop playing) at any tenth level (40, 50, etc) although it is more respectable the higher level you stop playing at.
A very low population realm is recommended. At the moment the only PvP realm that is very low pop is Maiev.
Can only do a certain instance once.
Can't accept gold from other people.
Only handle ITEMS within the party.
Can't buy gold or accept gold from players other than the group.
If a designated leader (Gocky) dies, we all lose. (inside joke)
You must physically travel to the dungeon to run it. You may queue for missing roles after travelling to the dungeon.
If you die, you have to delete a piece of gear other than a shirt or tabard. The only exceptions to this are if you are killed in any PvP engagement or are killed with an active Soulstone or Ankh.
You must create a guild for ONLY your group. This is your Adventuring party. Give it a good name, this is how others will know you.
Play the faction/race/class combo you have played the least.
Coordinate professions for each player.
A group of 3-5 people are ideal.
No PvP gear.
No Auction House.
ONLY AESTHETIC ADDONS.
You must use /say or /yell at all times.
The party must group up and quest together once they venture out of their race's starter zone.
Once a party member reaches level 50, they must wait for the rest of the party to reach level 50. Once the party has reached level 50, they must complete the introductory Frostwolf (AV) quests together.
Any player who quits the hard mode shall be written down in Guild info as deceased, with their last cause of death as the cause.
There is no limit on the amount of players who can have specific gathering professions, but only 1 player each may have a certain primary profession. (Only 1 Engineer, only 1 Alchemist). Hard mode players cannot use the services of people not in their group.
The group can retire (stop playing) at any tenth level (40, 50, etc) although it is more respectable the higher level you stop playing at.
A very low population realm is recommended. At the moment the only PvP realm that is very low pop is Maiev.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Cities and You (D&D)
An informational pamphlet I made for my D&D group on Cities in-game.
Cities, though rare and oft times far betwixt, are important places of commerce, trade and learning. Stuffy administration rooms and adventurous conspiracy plots aside, cities and towns offer services that are of specific use to mercenary types.
Taverns/Inns- A room at an Inn is a mainstay for many adventurers spending time in a city. Most Innkeeps demand three days pay up front, as mercenaries have a habit of taking off and or dying suddenly. Inns vary widely, with some catering specifically to mercenaries and locating themselves in the slums or near the markets, and others specialized towards the nobility and upper class. Some Inns both rich and poor feature "Special" services such as companionship, gladiatorial fights and even private zoos. The legality of such services is different in each empire. Some well to do taverns may have their own private brewery or may employ a Wizard or other spellcaster as a bouncer.
Library/Scroll Shop/Wizard's Academy- Wizards and others may go to the Wizard's Academy to get an item identified, go to the Library to research a spell(most of them require a fee to view), lookup some piece of lore, or purchase scrolls from a scroll shop.
Temple/Church- Mercenaries who are on good or neutral terms with a God may pay for spells of healing or lore knowledge from the Priests of a Church or Temple. Those adventurers who are on bad terms with a deity are advised to not go to his followers, as they may be met with much hostility and the God will refuse to grant heling unto them.
Graveyard- Depending on the city, the graveyard may be within or without the city walls. Besides, the only reason one would find interest in a graveyard is if one was dead, being that Necromancy earns you an instant death sentence in every empire.
The Barracks- The City guard of most cities are always on the lookout for wrongdoers. Depending on the severity of witnessed crime, characters may face a single guardsman, a patrol or even a specialized kill-squad with magical and divine support. Wanted players are advised to either turn themselves in, pay/bribe for their crimes or seek a quick escape from the city until the Guard Captain forgets your name.
The chance that public violence will catch the ear or eye of a guard varies depending on where it occurs, as Poorer districts such as the Slums and Market are not as heavily patrolled as the Temple or Government districts. The city prison is often located near the Barracks, although not always.
Arena- Men and women who wish to put their lives on the line for the crowds entertainment and their own chance at fame and glory are common, though most leave the profession after their first brush with death- if they survive that is. The arena is a source of entertainment and combative professionalism. Gladiators compete as either slaves or hired muscle: fighting, killing and dying for the love of the crowd and the ache of their own desperate wallets.
City Hall/Town Hall- Copious record keeping and tight security are features common to all City Hall's. If a character wishes to look up a name or see official documents, a small fee that gain them access to public documents.
Bathouse- The meeting place of choice for most nobles of Arran, the bathouse has somehow spread to Sardia as well. While weapons and clothing are not allowed within a bathouse, it can usually be the perfect place to attempt a deal or an assassination. The talk of relaxed nobles can also be an important source of information.
Castle/Palace- The center of a cities power and the seat of its ruler, the Palace or Castle is usually a grand and awe-inspiring structure, set in the middle of a cities spread. The Royal Guards of the Palace are an elite fighting force, and the King/Queen's Throne room is sometimes open for audiences with powerful people. The treasury often lies beneath the Palace, and the Royal Treasure Vault may hold items rivalling the power of artifacts from Ages long gone.
Market/Thieves Guild/Souk/Bazaar- Markets are the primary trade areas of a city. While most other trade oriented areas of a city are based on pure production and/or storage, the Marketplace is where one can almost always find a market for an item. For illegal substances or goods, the Thieves Guild charges a modest fee to partake of most cities Black Markets. Such markets are held in a different place every week, always out of sight and commonly under the cover of night.
The smaller the city, the less goods and items are available in its Market, and thus the less gold the market will pay for items that the characters sell. Large Cities such as Mallenghast, Sardia or Arran have the most variety in items that may be found there. Usually, items produced by a rival city or not of this world are rarely found in a market, and when they are they are exbortinatly priced.
Markets will always consist of some of the following merchants-
Architect- Can be hired to provide engineering/architectural advice or oversee the construction of a structure or siege equipment. The workforce is a seperate matter.
Mason's Guild- Can be hired for building projects and other labors where a substantial workforce is required. The Mason's Guild is usually blurry on the line of legality, and for the right pay they can be hired to aid in breakins and acts of sabotage. Wainwrights, Carpenters and Stone Masons all fall under this Guild, and thus can all be hired from the Mason's Guildhall if the city has the workforce.
Cartographer- Maps can be made and bought at a Cartographers shop, and most map makers are masters of the lore that surrounds their maps as well.
Slave Stand- Slavery is illegal in Sardia and Mallenghast, making Arran the primary mover in this market. The Slave Stands of Arran are legendary, and the merchants here can sell hundreds of men and women in a day.
Food Stand- Whether one seeks rations for travelling or goods for a feast, food stands are commonplace in almost all cities and sell most of what that city produces in the first place.
Armorer- Leather, mail, chain and plate are all possibilities in an armorers shop. Whether the suits are magical is another deal entirely, yet most Armorers carry at least one magical item.
Armory- A marketplace Armory is different from a City Armory as these sell and produce weapons rather than distributing them to guards and soldiers. Magic weapons are much more common than magic armor, and most shops have one to a dozen magic weapons.
Alchemist- Potions, herbs, incendiary devices and various other bubbling liquids are sold at an Alchemist's shop.
Stables- Whether you need a horse, donkey, camel or giant eagle, stables are always available in a city.
Thieves' Guild- The Thieves' Guilds of most cities hold weekly Black Markets that cater to those who would wish to stay out of the public eye. Poisonmakers, gambling halls, assassins for hire, Thieving Shops, illegal slave markets and fences for stolen goods are the usual fare at these gatherings. It usually takes a DC 15 to 20 Gather Information check to find out the location of the next Black Market, and the fee is usually under 10gp.
Tailor/Cobbler/Clothier- Hats, robes, boots and clothing galore can be found in almost every market across the known world.
Tabernae Vagrantes- These are the mysterious shops from which people buy magical items, only to return when there turns out to be a problem (as there always does), and find the shop is vanished. Most of these shops sell wondrous items that have lurid or unpleasant histories when finally researched, though this does nothing to diminish their power.
Cities, though rare and oft times far betwixt, are important places of commerce, trade and learning. Stuffy administration rooms and adventurous conspiracy plots aside, cities and towns offer services that are of specific use to mercenary types.
Taverns/Inns- A room at an Inn is a mainstay for many adventurers spending time in a city. Most Innkeeps demand three days pay up front, as mercenaries have a habit of taking off and or dying suddenly. Inns vary widely, with some catering specifically to mercenaries and locating themselves in the slums or near the markets, and others specialized towards the nobility and upper class. Some Inns both rich and poor feature "Special" services such as companionship, gladiatorial fights and even private zoos. The legality of such services is different in each empire. Some well to do taverns may have their own private brewery or may employ a Wizard or other spellcaster as a bouncer.
Library/Scroll Shop/Wizard's Academy- Wizards and others may go to the Wizard's Academy to get an item identified, go to the Library to research a spell(most of them require a fee to view), lookup some piece of lore, or purchase scrolls from a scroll shop.
Temple/Church- Mercenaries who are on good or neutral terms with a God may pay for spells of healing or lore knowledge from the Priests of a Church or Temple. Those adventurers who are on bad terms with a deity are advised to not go to his followers, as they may be met with much hostility and the God will refuse to grant heling unto them.
Graveyard- Depending on the city, the graveyard may be within or without the city walls. Besides, the only reason one would find interest in a graveyard is if one was dead, being that Necromancy earns you an instant death sentence in every empire.
The Barracks- The City guard of most cities are always on the lookout for wrongdoers. Depending on the severity of witnessed crime, characters may face a single guardsman, a patrol or even a specialized kill-squad with magical and divine support. Wanted players are advised to either turn themselves in, pay/bribe for their crimes or seek a quick escape from the city until the Guard Captain forgets your name.
The chance that public violence will catch the ear or eye of a guard varies depending on where it occurs, as Poorer districts such as the Slums and Market are not as heavily patrolled as the Temple or Government districts. The city prison is often located near the Barracks, although not always.
Arena- Men and women who wish to put their lives on the line for the crowds entertainment and their own chance at fame and glory are common, though most leave the profession after their first brush with death- if they survive that is. The arena is a source of entertainment and combative professionalism. Gladiators compete as either slaves or hired muscle: fighting, killing and dying for the love of the crowd and the ache of their own desperate wallets.
City Hall/Town Hall- Copious record keeping and tight security are features common to all City Hall's. If a character wishes to look up a name or see official documents, a small fee that gain them access to public documents.
Bathouse- The meeting place of choice for most nobles of Arran, the bathouse has somehow spread to Sardia as well. While weapons and clothing are not allowed within a bathouse, it can usually be the perfect place to attempt a deal or an assassination. The talk of relaxed nobles can also be an important source of information.
Castle/Palace- The center of a cities power and the seat of its ruler, the Palace or Castle is usually a grand and awe-inspiring structure, set in the middle of a cities spread. The Royal Guards of the Palace are an elite fighting force, and the King/Queen's Throne room is sometimes open for audiences with powerful people. The treasury often lies beneath the Palace, and the Royal Treasure Vault may hold items rivalling the power of artifacts from Ages long gone.
Market/Thieves Guild/Souk/Bazaar- Markets are the primary trade areas of a city. While most other trade oriented areas of a city are based on pure production and/or storage, the Marketplace is where one can almost always find a market for an item. For illegal substances or goods, the Thieves Guild charges a modest fee to partake of most cities Black Markets. Such markets are held in a different place every week, always out of sight and commonly under the cover of night.
The smaller the city, the less goods and items are available in its Market, and thus the less gold the market will pay for items that the characters sell. Large Cities such as Mallenghast, Sardia or Arran have the most variety in items that may be found there. Usually, items produced by a rival city or not of this world are rarely found in a market, and when they are they are exbortinatly priced.
Markets will always consist of some of the following merchants-
Architect- Can be hired to provide engineering/architectural advice or oversee the construction of a structure or siege equipment. The workforce is a seperate matter.
Mason's Guild- Can be hired for building projects and other labors where a substantial workforce is required. The Mason's Guild is usually blurry on the line of legality, and for the right pay they can be hired to aid in breakins and acts of sabotage. Wainwrights, Carpenters and Stone Masons all fall under this Guild, and thus can all be hired from the Mason's Guildhall if the city has the workforce.
Cartographer- Maps can be made and bought at a Cartographers shop, and most map makers are masters of the lore that surrounds their maps as well.
Slave Stand- Slavery is illegal in Sardia and Mallenghast, making Arran the primary mover in this market. The Slave Stands of Arran are legendary, and the merchants here can sell hundreds of men and women in a day.
Food Stand- Whether one seeks rations for travelling or goods for a feast, food stands are commonplace in almost all cities and sell most of what that city produces in the first place.
Armorer- Leather, mail, chain and plate are all possibilities in an armorers shop. Whether the suits are magical is another deal entirely, yet most Armorers carry at least one magical item.
Armory- A marketplace Armory is different from a City Armory as these sell and produce weapons rather than distributing them to guards and soldiers. Magic weapons are much more common than magic armor, and most shops have one to a dozen magic weapons.
Alchemist- Potions, herbs, incendiary devices and various other bubbling liquids are sold at an Alchemist's shop.
Stables- Whether you need a horse, donkey, camel or giant eagle, stables are always available in a city.
Thieves' Guild- The Thieves' Guilds of most cities hold weekly Black Markets that cater to those who would wish to stay out of the public eye. Poisonmakers, gambling halls, assassins for hire, Thieving Shops, illegal slave markets and fences for stolen goods are the usual fare at these gatherings. It usually takes a DC 15 to 20 Gather Information check to find out the location of the next Black Market, and the fee is usually under 10gp.
Tailor/Cobbler/Clothier- Hats, robes, boots and clothing galore can be found in almost every market across the known world.
Tabernae Vagrantes- These are the mysterious shops from which people buy magical items, only to return when there turns out to be a problem (as there always does), and find the shop is vanished. Most of these shops sell wondrous items that have lurid or unpleasant histories when finally researched, though this does nothing to diminish their power.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Nalaam-Ur, The City of Steel
(An idea for a BLAME! style RPG.)
NALAAM-UR
THE CITY OF STEEL
It all dates back to the forgotten ages of humanity. Decadent and proud we were back then, bending the backs of the less fortunate to do our work. The Kobold-kin, the Orc, the beast, the Elf and Dwarf. We drove them out of their forest and mountain homes into waiting shackles. We could not build forever though, and soon enough we fell apart to war against one another. Of the warring factions there was a powerful sect of Metallic Magi, specializing in works of steel. Their greatest idea was a great weapon to be built above the world in the airless void above. And so it was built, fully almost a fourth the size of the world. And they struck their foes, and a battle was fought. All sides lost that day, as Nalaam-Ur, the City of Steel, plummeted to the earth.
The machine struck our world with such force to push it many miles down into the mantle itself, blasting off the other side of the world with wondrous and horrible dances of fire. From what we know, only those within the City of Steel at impact survived, and of those, the vast majority are what were known as the "Slaves" of the Metal Magi.
Nalaam-Ur
Terrestrial Megapolis
Population- approx. 17,000,000
Human 1%, Fey 15%, Kobold-kin 20%, Orc/Ogre-kind 35%, Dwarves 3%, Gnomes 2%, Elves 4%, Other 30%
The world of Nalaam-Ur looks like an orb with a titanic white cube embedded in one side, spanning almost half the planet. The other side of the planet resembles a gouged out valley of volcanoes and methane seas.
Humans, rare as they are, are hated by all others as the scapegoats of all ill will. The most expensive resource of the land is a rare one: Dirt. Sold by the handful, all fruit and vegetables are rare and expensive delicacies. Meat, whether by cannibalism or the cooking of beasts of beef and pork, is also high priced. Currency is measured in dirt, barter and seeds.
Settlements are few and far apart, and usually mobile.
Ex. Places
Pipes are filled with either Oil, Water Vapor, Liquid Water or Chemicals.
Galleries of pipes and valves
Hangars of cyclopean machines long dead
Great pistons slamming rythmically against gaskets in the floor or ceiling, covered in oil. Or, resting pistons.
Lakes of Oil or chemicals.
Ex. Creatures
Chromites- Swarms of tiny metal beetles that swarm over everything and eat all biological matter.
Lumites- Rare gnat-like creatures that are frightened easily by quick movement and loud noise. As a reaction to fear, their wings create sparks, possibly igniting any nearby flammable substance.
Minotaurs- Rulers of the Deep Mazes
Polyps- Vaguely Biological masses of moss-like growth and bubbling matter that cling to the surfaces of the city in the high up areas above the atmosphere. As one ascends the many floors the air gets thinner and life more sparse. The pinnacle of the city is a great citadel of gleaming silver, undamaged in the slightest. It is said the King of Steel still rules all metallic things from this citadel.
Dryads- Substitute tree for a pillar or a polyp mass.
Nymphs- 2 Types: Oil & Earth, Oiads and Taiads. Oiads have skin of pitch black, and feed on those they drown in their oily demesnes. Taiads tend to well-hidden gardens of plants and dirt, gathering energies to make the crowning achievement of any Taiads life: a Tree.
Ex. City
Firstbreak- A mobile city of steelsmiths and merchants, Firstbreak follows the dirt, preserving and storing it for sale and use. The town is ruled by an Ogre known as Tural.
Silia's Fall- A great chamber, many miles around, sits in some forgotten part of the city. With a ceiling over 500ft tall, Silia's Fall is most notable for the colossal tree reaching out from roof to dirt floor. Its great roots are said to extend many miles all around and the Nymph who created the tree, Silia, is said to have become one with her creation.
NALAAM-UR
THE CITY OF STEEL
It all dates back to the forgotten ages of humanity. Decadent and proud we were back then, bending the backs of the less fortunate to do our work. The Kobold-kin, the Orc, the beast, the Elf and Dwarf. We drove them out of their forest and mountain homes into waiting shackles. We could not build forever though, and soon enough we fell apart to war against one another. Of the warring factions there was a powerful sect of Metallic Magi, specializing in works of steel. Their greatest idea was a great weapon to be built above the world in the airless void above. And so it was built, fully almost a fourth the size of the world. And they struck their foes, and a battle was fought. All sides lost that day, as Nalaam-Ur, the City of Steel, plummeted to the earth.
The machine struck our world with such force to push it many miles down into the mantle itself, blasting off the other side of the world with wondrous and horrible dances of fire. From what we know, only those within the City of Steel at impact survived, and of those, the vast majority are what were known as the "Slaves" of the Metal Magi.
Nalaam-Ur
Terrestrial Megapolis
Population- approx. 17,000,000
Human 1%, Fey 15%, Kobold-kin 20%, Orc/Ogre-kind 35%, Dwarves 3%, Gnomes 2%, Elves 4%, Other 30%
The world of Nalaam-Ur looks like an orb with a titanic white cube embedded in one side, spanning almost half the planet. The other side of the planet resembles a gouged out valley of volcanoes and methane seas.
Humans, rare as they are, are hated by all others as the scapegoats of all ill will. The most expensive resource of the land is a rare one: Dirt. Sold by the handful, all fruit and vegetables are rare and expensive delicacies. Meat, whether by cannibalism or the cooking of beasts of beef and pork, is also high priced. Currency is measured in dirt, barter and seeds.
Settlements are few and far apart, and usually mobile.
Ex. Places
Pipes are filled with either Oil, Water Vapor, Liquid Water or Chemicals.
Galleries of pipes and valves
Hangars of cyclopean machines long dead
Great pistons slamming rythmically against gaskets in the floor or ceiling, covered in oil. Or, resting pistons.
Lakes of Oil or chemicals.
Ex. Creatures
Chromites- Swarms of tiny metal beetles that swarm over everything and eat all biological matter.
Lumites- Rare gnat-like creatures that are frightened easily by quick movement and loud noise. As a reaction to fear, their wings create sparks, possibly igniting any nearby flammable substance.
Minotaurs- Rulers of the Deep Mazes
Polyps- Vaguely Biological masses of moss-like growth and bubbling matter that cling to the surfaces of the city in the high up areas above the atmosphere. As one ascends the many floors the air gets thinner and life more sparse. The pinnacle of the city is a great citadel of gleaming silver, undamaged in the slightest. It is said the King of Steel still rules all metallic things from this citadel.
Dryads- Substitute tree for a pillar or a polyp mass.
Nymphs- 2 Types: Oil & Earth, Oiads and Taiads. Oiads have skin of pitch black, and feed on those they drown in their oily demesnes. Taiads tend to well-hidden gardens of plants and dirt, gathering energies to make the crowning achievement of any Taiads life: a Tree.
Ex. City
Firstbreak- A mobile city of steelsmiths and merchants, Firstbreak follows the dirt, preserving and storing it for sale and use. The town is ruled by an Ogre known as Tural.
Silia's Fall- A great chamber, many miles around, sits in some forgotten part of the city. With a ceiling over 500ft tall, Silia's Fall is most notable for the colossal tree reaching out from roof to dirt floor. Its great roots are said to extend many miles all around and the Nymph who created the tree, Silia, is said to have become one with her creation.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Mimisbrunnrssaga
The Saga of Mimir's Well: Of Semaj & Skarvald
(Mimisbrunnrssaga vita Semaj eða Skarvald)
"Why that Pool of Mimir / Great font of knowledge and skald-brew / Drink of it and it will make thou / A Skald and sage forever more / But beware the words of those who failed / And in their failure scribed their fears and wailed." - Prose Edda
Part 1: The Tomb of Mimir & Great Doors of the Dark
(Mimishaugr eða Mikill Blakkrdyrr)
Among the dank immensity of the silent tomb, nothing stirred. The rock had been untouched for years, and had been laid far longer than that. Eons ago, when the first sentient beings had risen up amongst the wilderness in the westernesse plains of Earth, the stones had been laid. No person yet living or book still existing remembers the names of this secretive people hidden back in the mists of history, yet their legacy remains in the stones and quiet.
A thin sliver of light pierced the darkness then, and a grating sound not unlike that of broken fingernails being dragged down a ruined board of iron was heard. The dreadful sound echoed through the unknown depths of the stony realm, bringing with it a grunting sound as a man strained at a hard and earthy door. The portal had been blocked rather completely by a gigantic boulder draped with roots and crown of pebbles. As it began to roll to the side, the darkness was banished and light flooded in from outside.
Framed in the white luminosity was a muscled figure, shirtless, and wearing a veritable armory of weapons and other accoutrements of war. The man's skin and hair were fair as the sun that shines above, and he was tall and well built. All about his form were buckled and strapped various different types of weapons: a dagger strapped to his stomach framed the falchion and battle-axe at his belt. A greatsword and a long bow made of some dark colored wood were buckled to a harness on his back, and around his neck swung a bandolier of arrows and darts covered in some mysterious waxen substance. Peering into the crepuscular demesnes of the room, he thoughtfully stroked his short beard.
Unfortunately, the unseen creatures of the room within were left with a fast fading afterimage of the man when he was roughly pushed aside. A smaller figure then entered the area of the threshold of the tomb such that the light made all attempts at gauging his features impossible. It sniffed slightly and nodded to an unseen companion nearby.
A great clunking and clanging of metal on stone was heard then, as a veritable war-party of short and stocky figures entered the tomb. They were headed by a wizened and bent creature with a contraption on his head which resembled a cross between a bonfire and a pickelhaube. The other various figures, all abnormally short, hustled into the room with brightly burning torches as a large metal box was set down in the middle of the cavernous room.
Most of the gnomish figures clamored out of the room then, leaving a multitude of their bright burning torches on the dusty flagstones of the tomb. As the bent old gnome nodded sagely to the figures waiting at the threshold, he too hurried out.
With an air of noble disregard for the antiquity of the setting, the second figure at the doorway slowly stepped into the tomb. What words can one use to describe a Skald? Better yet, what words are overused? Sage-like, wise and powerful are descriptions usually applied at this juncture. Skalds were the poetic heralds of kings and emperors, travellers of the northern climes and pertinent additions to any mercenary party. These musicians of the mind and wizards of knowledge and the occult were all said to have drunk from the mead of poetry spilled by Odin in the ancient myths.
The figure which now entered the tomb probably drank a diluted form of the mead. Something containing brandy and tobacco perhaps, with a hint of acidic trouble.
"Fething blasted bones all over the floor! Skarvald! Get down here and guard me while I set this bloody contraption up!" He yelled in a shrill voice lightly tinged with a slight wheeze.
The muscled man at the threshold, now armored in a suit of chain-mail and a battered horned helmet, hesitated slightly at the vacated portal. He looked over his shoulder back into the tomb slowly. The torches guttered on the floor.
"Don't make me tell you again Skarvald." The figure spat, his voice dripping venom.
Sheepishly, the giant of a man trudged into the tomb. The metal armor he now wore made a constantly sussurating grating noise while the cold iron of his weapons clanked obediently in time to his movements. He drew slowly towards the man standing in the center of the room, the dimensions of the darkness around them both unknowable. The light of the torches were now sparking as the embers died slowly.
The man leaning against the metallic object in the center of the room slowly lit a small cigarette then, the light of the small flame illuminating a pale face framed by unkempt dirty golden hair. The fabrics of his clothing suggested nobility stained with a hint of disgusting mercenary, and the various leather patches, scroll cases and the rusted athame sheathed at his belt gave him the look of one who had been out of touch with civilization for some time.
With a look of mild annoyance, the figure took a puff of tobacco laden smoke before reaching down and turning a small dial on the metal box he leant on. The box lit up then, as if the doors of heaven had been opened wide and all of Greatfather Odin's blessed angels were pouring forth on the glorious dawn.
The benighted chamber was illumined in a verminous glow, the light from the box gradually dimming down to an orange flouresence as the dial clicked to a stop.
"Good gnome-craft, I think. Are we ready then, Semaj?" Quipped the barbarian.
The pale man tapped the end of his cig as he spun about then, marvelling at the size of the chamber they now saw themselves to occupy.
To use a word like gargantuan or colossal would be an understatement- the cavernous depths that were illuminated before the pair was unlike anything seen elsewhere on this earth. Great basalt columns stretched upwards into the dark, and the orange sun-like glow of the lighted box before them barely scratched the barest extremity of the fringe of darkness that ensconsed their space of small light.
"Not good enough it seems. Looks like were in for the long dark this time then, Skarvald." Semaj sighed. The iron box they had purchased from the gnomes of Suttungr had failed to illuminate the cavernous depths as they had advertised, and Semaj made a mental note to torch their village if he and Skarvald made it out of the tomb with their goal in hand. Preferably alive as well.
In fact, the continued breathing of the both of them was very high on their list of priorities. Semaj was of the type that would prefer his blood to stay permanently inside his body.
The tomb they now inhabited had been known as Mimmsbrunnrhall, or, the Hall of the Fountain of Mimir. Whoever drank of the fountain, which contained the essence of all the Deities of Valhalla and the Overworlds, would be granted the knowledge and intelligence enough to rival Loki himself. The cunning required to outwit the laughing god is another story, but for now lets stick with the basics to our tale.
It was this fountain, this font of liquid knowledge that the pair had been searching for. Semaj surely hoped that they had found it, as thus far their wanderings had consisted of his bodyguard Skarvald's crippling alcoholism and a fair amount of tavern brawls that tend to result in trouble for the both of them.
The glittering wand of azure stone that Semaj drew forth from his leathery robes rapidly caught the orange radiance of the iron box, projecting kaleidoscopic patterns onto the face of the barbarian. Skarvald crossed his arms in stubborn annoyance, muttering something about "wizard spells and god poems" under his alcohol tinged breath.
The sparkling lights that poured forth from the cerulean branch of Yggdrasil were brighter and more radiant yet than the iron box. Skald, wizard or sorcerer of a distant time, the man shone with an aura of magic rivaled only by Greatfather Odin's runic powers over fate and destiny. He was power absolute.
The wand shone like a miniature sun for time, and then slowly it tapered off as a ray of azure and veridian stretched forth into the distance. The ray stopped about 200 feet beyond the fringe of shadows, where it impacted upon some type of door or valve in the wall. To call it a door was an understatement: the thing was massive, containing twin gargantuan slabs of adamantine that shone in the pale illumination of the ray. The doors stood unmoving, and slowly the light went out.
Skarvald let out a sharp exhalation. He had been holding his breath in anticipation, yet now their path was clear within the darkness of this fathomless space. Perhaps beyond the doors of that Ginnungagap-like space lay the glittering waters of Mimir's pond, guarded by the eponymous giant himself.
Semaj pondered the location of the light ray, slowly stowing the azure wand within his robes once more. The small turban of white on his head reflected the radiance of the light-box nearby, glittering in all the normal shades of color and some others that are difficult to look at.
Semaj was not of the Northern stock as Skarvald was, he hailed from the far deserts of the south. The poet and astronomer of the Sultan of Baghdad, Semaj Al-Shemalla had been sent as an Ambassador of that hot place to the colder climes of the north.
Send to uncover and divulge the locations of poweful artifacts known to any sage or skald worth their salts, Semaj soon realized that he much more enjoyed the freedom of being a free man alone in an unexplored realm than a man with a mission. Of course, these artifacts were said to be extremely powerful, and it was with a selfish sense of arrogance that Semaj set out to rival the Sultan himself.
Amidst a sea of trepidation and prejudice, Semaj had proven his worth to the High King Snorri of the greater part of the prime northern regions through both his continued survival and continued persistence in persuing the legends surrounding the Well of Mimir. What he hadn't proven in words and rhyme, he'd made clear with steel and spells, a practice he had learned fast in the harsh climes of the north.
Somewhere amongst the blithering idiots and crude barbarians of the snow and tundra he had happened upon the unbelievably useful specimen of Skarvald Aethradisran. A stubborn and boastful thing, he had fallen in with Semaj more on chance than choice, yet they were fast proving to be a strong force. Besides, Semaj could deal with the alcoholism and rampant superstition.
Although he valued Skarvald as a force of help, it would be a stretch to truly call them friends. Business associates perhaps- maybe even partners, but friendship gets you a blade in the backside in the freezing north.
"Well, we had best get to it then." Semaj muttered.
"Yup." Skarvald answered, still staring in the direction of the now absent light ray.
Neither moved. The darkness of the tomb was absolute; it was as if the two stood in an island of light amidst a sea of pitch. The silence was unnerving.
Suddenly, and with a sense of purpose, Skarvald strode forward into the crushing black, leaving a stunned Semaj behind him. Feeling that he should follow the man to make sure nothing untoward happened to him, Semaj hurried into the shadows as well. Skarvald was amazingly useful as both a human pack-mule and bodyguard, and his survival instincts had helped them both on many an occasion. Besides, thought Semaj, who would carry all the loot from their exploration if Skarvald died?
As Semaj strode into the darkness, it was as if a veil had been raised to his eyes. He could no longer perceive the phosphoresence of the lichens and moss up above, nor could he see the radiance of the dammned light-box behind him. The entire realm of his senses were blanketed in shadow, and a cold feeling began creeping up his spine.
He broke into a run, aimlessly sprinting forward in the direction he thought lay the great doors he had seen before. The memory of light in his mind grew fainter and fainter, and he could no longer see in his minds eye the sun. All was blackness, and as the blood ran cold in Semaj's veins and his heart pounded a thunderous beat as if the fevered kettle drums of a tribe of savages grew closer, he felt fear. Fear absolute and numbing such that to cry out would be death and to be silent and keep the absence of peace upon the mind was insanity.
All of this dreadful content came to a halt as Semaj impacted upon something hard and smelling faintly of mead. The fact that he had ran into the backside of Skarvald was not immediately apparent to Semaj. Gradually he could somehow see the man who stood before him, like a blind man realizing that he stood on the edge of an abyss.
Then, far above yet still noticeable to both delvers, two lights appeared in the dark. Creeping down from the ceiling on shafts of unseen air or magic, two orbs of light floated down slowly.
Even as the gasp of amazement left Skarvald's mouth, Semaj realized their danger. Spirits of the dark places of the earth surely drew near, as Semaj recognized the orbs from an old book amongst thousands he had once read. Will O' Wisps, ghosts of those driven to an insane death amongst the ruins of civilization at the fringes of the world. Harbingers of a maddening doom and an icy touch. They needed light to combat this evil, and quickly, for the wispy ghosts of the past thrived in darkness.
"Fast!" Hissed Semaj, pushing Skarvald to the side even as he worked at unlooping his falchion from its scabbard loop. Pulling aside his robes a pace, Semaj selected a small rod of marble that gave off a slight emerald glow as if a mysterious moss inhabited its inner depths. The sickly green of the orbs drew closer, and with a word and a motion of power from the marble rod Skarvald and Semaj were blinded by an explosion of screaming whiteness.
Gradually the blinding light faded, and they were left in darkness once more. Afterimages swam across Skarvald's vision as he picked himself up from the floor. Semaj stowed the rod back inside the folds of his robes once more as he drew forth a taper of steel and flicked his fingers over it.
"Meta Infernum, Esxurge nos!" Semaj whispered to the taper.
Without warning the bit of steel flared with sparking luminesence. Throwing his hands up and away from the heat, Skarvald leant backwards against the doors. The taper fell to the ground and illuminated their immediate surroundings.
"We haven't much time Skarvald. Those wisps won't stay away from a flame this weak for long." Semaj whispered calmly. The orbs were still above them, Skarvald realized as he looked upwards. They floated silently far above, like the glowing eyes of a voracious ghoul. They did not move, and Skarvald looked away quickly lest some spell be cast upon him from the sight.
Skarvald nodded slightly as he got to his feet. Skald-spells and Wizard magic he could tolerate, but the thought of coming closer to those hell-orbs and witch-ghosts sent shivers through his mind. He had heard the stories like all Northerners: undead monstrosities crawling out from the tombs of the past with an unsatiable appetite and superhuman strength. Draugr, they were called. The risen forms of those who perish to the ghosts and shades of the dead. Skarvald muttered a prayer to Odin, Loki and Thor for protection.
Turning to the great doors before them, strange markings began to appear on the black stone. Skarvald began to see these markings as well, and closed his eyes in fear. The barbarians of the north were were a superstitious folk, and Skarvald put much truck in the curses and myths of his people that he frequently heard over a mug of mead at a tavern. Ah, the tavern. Skarvald wished he could be there right now. The life of a clan-less warrior is a lonely one when you lose your ale as well.
"Hmm, most peculiar. They seem to be in Cirth." Semaj noted.
Cirth. The word sounded out like a black bell of doom in Skarvald's mind. The Cirth were an ancient people now only known of in myths and legends too terrible to recount over less than a whole keg of ale. It was whispered over boiling pots of stew in the dark corners of taverns that the Cirth had destroyed themselves a millenia ago when they sought to harness the power of the stars themselves. Supposedly their power was overshadowed by their hubris, and gods struck them down for their arrogance as their empire crumbled and their people were annihilated. Cirth ruins were always bad news.
Unfortunately for many of the superstitious barbarians of the north, Cirth was simply a dialect of the Norse language. A dialect that Semaj had forced Skarvald to teach him over the last few months. At first Skarvald had been unwilling to teach the Arabian wizard, yet when faced with an allergy to alcohol via magical curse, he knew the lesser of two evils. The mead mug is a harsh mistress indeed.
"I think it's a riddle actually." Semaj whispered excitedly.
"Oh great. A riddle." Skarvald thought. Semaj sure did love his riddles.
"I've got an idea Semaj, why don't we just look for another door?" Skarvald queried.
"Another door? I sure do hope you're not afraid Skarvald. I took you for stouter stuff when you slaughtered that cave full of trolls a week ago."
"But I was drunk then, and I had Odin on my side! You can't possibly be chalking that up as an example of-"
"And you're always drinking and boasting of all your glories and victories and feats in battle. Should we ignore those too and abandon this obstacle for some easier and less glorious course?"
"But all the stories are tr-"
"Should we just take to wandering the halls of every ruin we come to afraid and weeping in fear at the possibility of something terrible happening to us, or we going to actively do something about it and make sure it does?!"
Semaj's voice echoed around the chamber then as he and Skarvald both realized the contradiction made in that sentence. Chuckling quietly, Skarvald turned to the door and muttered a string of obscenities as he unbuckled an iron headed warhammer from his back.
"Skarvald, what are you..." Semaj whispered with the raising of an eyebrow questioningly.
The words had barely left his mouth when the warhammer head struck the stone and a brilliant explosion of color erupted out from the door. Magenta and violet sparks flew across Semaj's vision as the smoke and dust cleared. A great hole had been blasted clear through the obsidian stone doors. The strength of Skarvald was no mead hall exaggeration it seemed.
Of Skarvald, Semaj saw a dark form stepping through the passage, the ruined remains of his mighty warhammer clutched in his fur-gloved hands. As the last flames of the flare at his feet went out, Semaj hastily followed into the lighted chamber beyond.
Part 2: Mimir's Fountain & Sacrifice for Knowledge
(Mimisbrunnr eða Blóta leita Fróðleikrskyn)
The shimmering colors that awaited Semaj and Skarvald at the terminus of the borehole the warhammer had made in the wall was a dazzling affair. Nearly falling to their knees in awe and wonder, the warhammer Skarvald held slowly slid from his grasp to clatter to the flagstones of the floor.
Before them rose a gigantic cistern or reservoir of some sort, a great stone bowl that rose almost a hundred feet from the ground. Glimmering faerie fires danced at the edges of the bowl, and leaning on the sill of the waters within was a huge humanoid figure. The visage of that monstrous being could not be discerned in the gloomy effervesence, yet the awesome wheel of colors that danced above what surely was the well that the pair sought illumined all in a flurry of scintillating light.
The pool was gargantuan, and the figure leaning against it inspired terror in Semaj's heart. Steeling his nerves, he discerned no opening nor void in the grey stone of the pool. Semaj suddenly felt a tugging at his robe, as if a wayward Djinn or some spirit was bushing by, yet he turned to face the source of it nonetheless.
It was Skarvald, slightly tugging at the hem of his robes. Semaj opened his mouth to rebuke him, yet he then saw what Skarvald was poiting at with his other hand: a narrow staircase, built into the circumference of the pool. Gently winding upwards, the staircase looked to be very old and made of some peculiar greenish stone.
Semaj nodded silently, fearful to break the quiet and the gentle humming from above. Carefully Skarvald and Semaj crept up the stairs, drawing ever closer to the pool above.
The figure above them, what could only be the hulking form of Mimir himself, slowly inhaled and exhaled. Mist ran down the sides of the stony cistern in rivulets of fog and quicksilver, and the fact that the giant form of one of the sons of the gods did not move did nothing to quell the errant fear that had been driven into the hearts of the two mortals who now ascended the well.
The giant-thing was slumped feebly against the outside of the well, and as Semaj and Skarvald made their ascent they began to perceive the details inherent in that colossal form. The skin of the titanic creature was bronzed and fleshy, yet had the look of molten metal. It flowed over his naked form and gave off a pale light like a guttering torchflame. The gilded gold of the mane of hair that crowned the giant's head was wondrous to behold, and Skarvald began to entertain lavish dreams if he were to cut but a strand from that scalp and profit thereby.
The face of the giant was the turned away from the pair, and as they took in the features of the giant's form, they could hear the slow and nearly silent breaths of the being before them. It was sleeping, Samej realized.
"Keep quiet Skarvald, and perhaps we will be able to steal ourselves a drink." Samej whispered. The sleeping figure before them moved not an inch, it's chest rising and falling slowly.
Mounting the final step upon the high perched sill of the great well of Mimir, Semaj and Skarvald glanced fearfully at the well's guardian again before staring out into the well.
It was empty.
The great well of Mimir was empty. The color wheel that spun above the well like an oriental light-show began to turn in myriad patterns and arcs, showering the well with curious strands of pearlescent light. Illuminating the inner depths of the darkened well, Semaj and Skarvald could see all the way down to the bottom. Not a drop of any fluid to drink showed itself to their eyes, and Skarvald let out a low growl of frustration.
As they stared down into the dusty depths of the well before them, a slight tremor shook the ground. Semaj and Skarvald drew their gazes up from the emptiness and met each others look of abject fear. Seeing a tremble of movement from the corner of their eyes, the pair slowly turned around.
The giant thing that rested before on the side of the well had moved, and now stood towering above them like a basalt statue of terror. The colorful lights of the wheel behind them cast a frightful phosphoresence of colors and strata across the room, and even as their eyes met the kneecaps of the titan that now stood over them, their wits were addled when a booming voice thundered out from a mouth that had been closed for an age or more.
"Interlopers! Trespassers! I have been the guardian of this well for countless epochs of the Earth, and of its waters I have drunk plentifully! Yet now in my slumber of eons I find myself awakened by thieves!" The voice shook to the keystones of the countless and unseen archways that supported the dirt of the ceiling, quaking the hearts and minds of the mere mortals that stood before this titan of antiquity. An unstoppable relic of a fantastical past.
Semaj and Skarvald averted their gazes as their minds turned to a possible escape. Skarvald wished fervently that he was in a tavern now, and began to realize that the last time he had been drunk was more than a week ago. His hand began to creep towards the axe at his belt as he began to entertain all the interestingly violent ways that he could even begin to injure a being like that of the living god that stood before him.
Eyes darting about the chamber, Semaj began to formulate various stratagems for escape. The fact that victory was possible did not dawn on the intellectually focused mind of the wizard, as he was more interested in saving his own skin than any worldly glory. Unfortunately, most of these many ideas ended in either his or Skarvald's death.
The eyes of the titan before them glowed furiously then, as if a dozen witches had begun a bonfire within his brain. He drew back from the pair as if in fear then, yet reasserted himself as Semaj and Skarvald's hands drew forth their weapons. The cerulean wand topped with azure crystals lept to Semaj's gloved hand as Skarvald drew forth his largest battle-axe, a fearsome thing with a pommel of skulls and silver spikes topped with rivets of cold iron.
"I, Mimir of the Well, will kill you where you stand! The future I have seen will not come to pass! I will yet live to sleep another age!" The giant Mimir yelled as Semaj and Skarvald wondered a pace at the cryptic words. Reaching up a gigantic hand, Mimir grasped a column of stone that braced two of the walls above. Pulling with might that only a living godling could muster, he tore the column from its ancient stone moorings.
Spinning about then with impossible speed, he slammed the gargantuan column down upon the spot where the two mortals had stood- yet they stood there no longer.
As Semaj worked a spell of levitation with the wand in his grasp, Skarvald braced his legs against the stone of the well's sill. Semaj watched the giant stone column that Mimir held sweep down upon Skarvald, and yelled a warning.
Yet Skarvald was nowhere to be seen. Mimir looked up and about for the warrior when he felt a prickling sensation on his arms. Letting go of the battered but intact stone column, he realized what had transpired.
Skarvald had jumped at the exact moment required for him to land on the arms of his foe. Even now, he ran up the biceps of Mimir, brushing aside the hairs of the godling like brush and weeds. His axe was clenched in his hands, and his baleful stare gazed out from inside his horned helm like the eyes of a wrathful demon awoken from its slumber.
Mimir shook his arms then to dislodge the pest that drew near as Semaj sent a crackling ray of electricity surging out from his wand. Crackling in midair, the lightning flowed around Semaj's form as he intoned secret words of power that took thousands of sacrifices to discover. The living lightning burst forth from some invisible cage then, splitting in midair to impact Mimir directly in the chest.
Falling back a step, Skarvald planted his iron boot in the godling's armpit as he bounded upwards. Drawing up his axe, he smote down upon Mimir's perfect face as a cry of blooded rage tore itself from his throat. Semaj's lightning winked out, and the blow fell in slow motion for the wizard.
The blade had barely grazed the giant nose of Mimir when its holder was swatted out of the air by Mimir's interposing hand. Skarvald gave a grunt of pain as he was sent flying across the chamber, impacting against the far wall with a crack of stone. His horned helmet flew off his head to clatter to the broken flagstones below as he slid down the wall to fall to the floor. His axe landed nearby, the shaft cloven in two.
Mimir laughed then, a great bellowing laugh that is common to those who think themselves the rulers of the worlds of mortals. Semaj floated slowly back as he watched Skarvald hit the wall.
"Now is my chance, Mimir is distracted and I can make my escape!" Semaj thought excitedly, quite sure of the sad fact of Skarvald's death.
But Mimir's laugh was cut short as Semaj reached the doors to the chamber. Skarvald gave a low growl as he painfully hauled himself up from the floor, dragging a half-broken throwing axe from his belt. Semaj gasped at the fortitude of Skarvald, yet his mind continued to yell at him to flee and save himself. Skarvald was doomed surely.
Yet something else came unbidden to Semaj's thoughts. The image of the solitary warrior from the north standing alone against the darkness of the unspeakable past struck a chord within Semaj's being. Were they not both orphans of the world, Skarvald and him? The barbarian running from a past only hinted at amidst drunken ramblings and sleepy mutterings, and the arrogant and godless scholar from Baghdad who put more truck in magic than religion or the opinions of others were kindred spirits. They were exiles from their peoples, living on the fringes. They were surely a precious commodity.
Skarvald lined up his throwing axe to Mimir's kneecap even as the godling strode forth angrily. Taking a step back for balance, Skarvald pitched the axe over his shoulder and sent it spinning through the air. Mimir barked a laugh as he sidestepped the pathetic attack, and clenched his hands in eagerness as he came near to the object of his battle-rage.
Drawing forth the only weapon that remained to him, Skarvald balanced the other throwing axe in his right hand as he took and step back. As he was about to cast it into space, a sight filled his eyes. It seemed as if time had slowed to a crawl, as Mimir moved as if old and tired. The light illuminating the room from the color wheel above the empty well above grew dark as shades of black and white spread across the expanse of the stone.
A cold wind blew, and a ghostly figure appeared to Skarvald's right. It was Semaj, who had expended the last of his powers to weave a spell of such power that it had slowed time for all but Skarvald and him. Even as Skarvald's bruised visage met his blank stare, Semaj took hold of the warrior's axe and spoke a word of power. The axe-head glowed with a fierce light then, seeming to catch the light of the room in every possible way as it refracted and reflected across the blade's edge.
Semaj pitched backwards then, fainting from the use of such mighty magicks, yet his wizardly mind still lingered as time sped up and the spell that had taken hold of Mimir ended.
The godling rushed forth as it had been, roaring furiously as he strode forth towards the mortal before him. With each titanic step the chamber trembled, and the fires that burned in the pits of Mimir's eyes danced wildly with the maddened beating of his own great heart.
Skarvald balanced the shining axe in his right hand as he drew it back behind himself. Lining up the throw, Skarvald tensed his muscles for the perfect shot.
However, the stress of a gigantic godlike being rushing towards Semaj's only hope and salvation had an interesting effect on his mental state, resulting in a thundering voice echoing through Sharvald's consciousness.
"JUST THROW THE BLOODY AXE YOU FOOL!" Roared the mental voice of Semaj.
Skarvald was startled into action, pitching the axe into the air before him with a mighty stroke and a roar of defiance.
The axe spun faster and faster through the air until it no longer resembled an axe. Like spinning discus of energy, it sliced through the air towards Mimir's widening eyes.
"Noooooooooooooooo!" Mimir yelled as he attempted to retard his charge, digging in his heels and casting his hands around for a hold.
Yet for all his godlike strength, nothing could stop the axe of Skarvald. With a sound like a bull elephant being snapped in half, Mimir's form shuddered as his head left his shoulders. Spinning through space and still contorted in a rictus of dread and terrible fear, Mimir's head slammed down into the floor before Skarvald as the dead godling's body collapsed to the stones of the chamber floor. The guardian of the well was dead.
Skarvald took this chance to collapse onto his back, his wounds numbering in the dozens. As darkness took him, he realized how incredibly thirsty he was, and to think of dying thirsty brough sadness to his heart. He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he regained consciousness, yet he opened his eyes to a familiar muttering and a scent like that of berries and cow dung.
Rising to a prone position, Skarvald became aware of the various splints and bandages that he now wore. His armor was neatly arranged on the floor nearby, and other than his undergarments he now wore what surely must have been a mile length of gauze. He looked quizzically at Semaj, who was in the process of applying a bandage to his hand which had been nearly broken from the strain of casting the enchanted battle axe at the godling Mimir.
As Semaj drew back from the barbarian to admire his work, he offered a hand to help the man up. Ignoring him, Skarvald got to his feet shakily, nodding a thanks to Semaj for the aid which he was sure he did not need anyway.
The smoking head of Mimir the guardian of the well sat before them. The eyelids were open, and the eyes shone dimly in the flourescent light of the chamber. Skarvald considered his once mighty foe, muttering a small prayer to Thor to guide Mimir's soul to Valhalla as reward for the glory he had been given in fighting and defeating him. For the most part, Skarvald had forgotten that Semaj had enchanted his axe to even damage the giant.
"Curious. The blood of our enemy does not seem to flow." Semaj whispered.
Skarvald grunted a questioning sound as he bent down to retrieve his horned helmet, planting it on his bandaged head.
"Observe." Semaj said, as he drew forth a long knife from his belt. The athame was a sacred tool of the wizards of the world, and was remarkably useful in both the draining of fluids in and out of combat.
Semaj bent over the head of Mimir then, slicing the athame into his neck. A spurt of watery, clear fluid sprayed out from the wound. Semaj plunged the athame deeper then, until a small spring of fluid leapt forth with a surprising amount of force.
"That is not water, Skarvald." Semaj said as they both knelt down before the dismembered head.
Then they both heard it: whispers in the darkness around them. As Skarvald sprung to his feet, overbalanced and fell on his rump, the room awoke with a chorus of whispers and voices. Among them all, a single deep baritone could be heard.
"I am the guardian of the well of Mimir, for Mimir I am and Mimir I will always be." The voice intoned sagely.
Semaj and Skarvald shared a gaze of confusion as the voice continued its monologue.
"The gods have decreed that no mortal may drink from the waters of the well, for the sacrifice is too great when one considers the reward to be infinite knowledge. I am no mortal, and thus I am not bound as the humans of Earth are."
The gears of Semaj's mind began to turn as he realized what the fluid he was drawn from Mimir's head really was.
"I have consumed the waters of the well, and in doing so shall protect them forevermore. They are a part of me now, and though I buy them with a great pain, I shall risk no theft to their substance. For I am the Keeper of the Well, and may the gods forgive me for what I have done."
The voices went silent as the color wheel above the empty well winked out. The chamber was illuminated by an opalescent light then, as if the pearls of a thousand clams were encrusted in the ceiling. The light gathered and clumped in clouds of luminesence around Semaj and Skarvald as they considered the liquid knowledge that lay at their feet.
"Well, I am really thirsty." Skarvald chuckled as Semaj gave him a smug look.
* * *
In the darkness of the tomb, a ghostly figure sat on the edge of the dry well of Mimir. The figure had the form of a young boy, clothed in almost nothing yet possessing a body so perfect that he had to have been a spawn of the Gods.
Looking down on the mouldering remains of the corpse below him, the boy began to play a soft melody on his harp, letting his thoughts drift off in ignorance of his surroundings. The music echoed throughout the halls, and for a time even the gods forgot their burdens and their schemes and listened to the music of justice- blind and ignorant.
(Mimisbrunnrssaga vita Semaj eða Skarvald)
"Why that Pool of Mimir / Great font of knowledge and skald-brew / Drink of it and it will make thou / A Skald and sage forever more / But beware the words of those who failed / And in their failure scribed their fears and wailed." - Prose Edda
Part 1: The Tomb of Mimir & Great Doors of the Dark
(Mimishaugr eða Mikill Blakkrdyrr)
Among the dank immensity of the silent tomb, nothing stirred. The rock had been untouched for years, and had been laid far longer than that. Eons ago, when the first sentient beings had risen up amongst the wilderness in the westernesse plains of Earth, the stones had been laid. No person yet living or book still existing remembers the names of this secretive people hidden back in the mists of history, yet their legacy remains in the stones and quiet.
A thin sliver of light pierced the darkness then, and a grating sound not unlike that of broken fingernails being dragged down a ruined board of iron was heard. The dreadful sound echoed through the unknown depths of the stony realm, bringing with it a grunting sound as a man strained at a hard and earthy door. The portal had been blocked rather completely by a gigantic boulder draped with roots and crown of pebbles. As it began to roll to the side, the darkness was banished and light flooded in from outside.
Framed in the white luminosity was a muscled figure, shirtless, and wearing a veritable armory of weapons and other accoutrements of war. The man's skin and hair were fair as the sun that shines above, and he was tall and well built. All about his form were buckled and strapped various different types of weapons: a dagger strapped to his stomach framed the falchion and battle-axe at his belt. A greatsword and a long bow made of some dark colored wood were buckled to a harness on his back, and around his neck swung a bandolier of arrows and darts covered in some mysterious waxen substance. Peering into the crepuscular demesnes of the room, he thoughtfully stroked his short beard.
Unfortunately, the unseen creatures of the room within were left with a fast fading afterimage of the man when he was roughly pushed aside. A smaller figure then entered the area of the threshold of the tomb such that the light made all attempts at gauging his features impossible. It sniffed slightly and nodded to an unseen companion nearby.
A great clunking and clanging of metal on stone was heard then, as a veritable war-party of short and stocky figures entered the tomb. They were headed by a wizened and bent creature with a contraption on his head which resembled a cross between a bonfire and a pickelhaube. The other various figures, all abnormally short, hustled into the room with brightly burning torches as a large metal box was set down in the middle of the cavernous room.
Most of the gnomish figures clamored out of the room then, leaving a multitude of their bright burning torches on the dusty flagstones of the tomb. As the bent old gnome nodded sagely to the figures waiting at the threshold, he too hurried out.
With an air of noble disregard for the antiquity of the setting, the second figure at the doorway slowly stepped into the tomb. What words can one use to describe a Skald? Better yet, what words are overused? Sage-like, wise and powerful are descriptions usually applied at this juncture. Skalds were the poetic heralds of kings and emperors, travellers of the northern climes and pertinent additions to any mercenary party. These musicians of the mind and wizards of knowledge and the occult were all said to have drunk from the mead of poetry spilled by Odin in the ancient myths.
The figure which now entered the tomb probably drank a diluted form of the mead. Something containing brandy and tobacco perhaps, with a hint of acidic trouble.
"Fething blasted bones all over the floor! Skarvald! Get down here and guard me while I set this bloody contraption up!" He yelled in a shrill voice lightly tinged with a slight wheeze.
The muscled man at the threshold, now armored in a suit of chain-mail and a battered horned helmet, hesitated slightly at the vacated portal. He looked over his shoulder back into the tomb slowly. The torches guttered on the floor.
"Don't make me tell you again Skarvald." The figure spat, his voice dripping venom.
Sheepishly, the giant of a man trudged into the tomb. The metal armor he now wore made a constantly sussurating grating noise while the cold iron of his weapons clanked obediently in time to his movements. He drew slowly towards the man standing in the center of the room, the dimensions of the darkness around them both unknowable. The light of the torches were now sparking as the embers died slowly.
The man leaning against the metallic object in the center of the room slowly lit a small cigarette then, the light of the small flame illuminating a pale face framed by unkempt dirty golden hair. The fabrics of his clothing suggested nobility stained with a hint of disgusting mercenary, and the various leather patches, scroll cases and the rusted athame sheathed at his belt gave him the look of one who had been out of touch with civilization for some time.
With a look of mild annoyance, the figure took a puff of tobacco laden smoke before reaching down and turning a small dial on the metal box he leant on. The box lit up then, as if the doors of heaven had been opened wide and all of Greatfather Odin's blessed angels were pouring forth on the glorious dawn.
The benighted chamber was illumined in a verminous glow, the light from the box gradually dimming down to an orange flouresence as the dial clicked to a stop.
"Good gnome-craft, I think. Are we ready then, Semaj?" Quipped the barbarian.
The pale man tapped the end of his cig as he spun about then, marvelling at the size of the chamber they now saw themselves to occupy.
To use a word like gargantuan or colossal would be an understatement- the cavernous depths that were illuminated before the pair was unlike anything seen elsewhere on this earth. Great basalt columns stretched upwards into the dark, and the orange sun-like glow of the lighted box before them barely scratched the barest extremity of the fringe of darkness that ensconsed their space of small light.
"Not good enough it seems. Looks like were in for the long dark this time then, Skarvald." Semaj sighed. The iron box they had purchased from the gnomes of Suttungr had failed to illuminate the cavernous depths as they had advertised, and Semaj made a mental note to torch their village if he and Skarvald made it out of the tomb with their goal in hand. Preferably alive as well.
In fact, the continued breathing of the both of them was very high on their list of priorities. Semaj was of the type that would prefer his blood to stay permanently inside his body.
The tomb they now inhabited had been known as Mimmsbrunnrhall, or, the Hall of the Fountain of Mimir. Whoever drank of the fountain, which contained the essence of all the Deities of Valhalla and the Overworlds, would be granted the knowledge and intelligence enough to rival Loki himself. The cunning required to outwit the laughing god is another story, but for now lets stick with the basics to our tale.
It was this fountain, this font of liquid knowledge that the pair had been searching for. Semaj surely hoped that they had found it, as thus far their wanderings had consisted of his bodyguard Skarvald's crippling alcoholism and a fair amount of tavern brawls that tend to result in trouble for the both of them.
The glittering wand of azure stone that Semaj drew forth from his leathery robes rapidly caught the orange radiance of the iron box, projecting kaleidoscopic patterns onto the face of the barbarian. Skarvald crossed his arms in stubborn annoyance, muttering something about "wizard spells and god poems" under his alcohol tinged breath.
The sparkling lights that poured forth from the cerulean branch of Yggdrasil were brighter and more radiant yet than the iron box. Skald, wizard or sorcerer of a distant time, the man shone with an aura of magic rivaled only by Greatfather Odin's runic powers over fate and destiny. He was power absolute.
The wand shone like a miniature sun for time, and then slowly it tapered off as a ray of azure and veridian stretched forth into the distance. The ray stopped about 200 feet beyond the fringe of shadows, where it impacted upon some type of door or valve in the wall. To call it a door was an understatement: the thing was massive, containing twin gargantuan slabs of adamantine that shone in the pale illumination of the ray. The doors stood unmoving, and slowly the light went out.
Skarvald let out a sharp exhalation. He had been holding his breath in anticipation, yet now their path was clear within the darkness of this fathomless space. Perhaps beyond the doors of that Ginnungagap-like space lay the glittering waters of Mimir's pond, guarded by the eponymous giant himself.
Semaj pondered the location of the light ray, slowly stowing the azure wand within his robes once more. The small turban of white on his head reflected the radiance of the light-box nearby, glittering in all the normal shades of color and some others that are difficult to look at.
Semaj was not of the Northern stock as Skarvald was, he hailed from the far deserts of the south. The poet and astronomer of the Sultan of Baghdad, Semaj Al-Shemalla had been sent as an Ambassador of that hot place to the colder climes of the north.
Send to uncover and divulge the locations of poweful artifacts known to any sage or skald worth their salts, Semaj soon realized that he much more enjoyed the freedom of being a free man alone in an unexplored realm than a man with a mission. Of course, these artifacts were said to be extremely powerful, and it was with a selfish sense of arrogance that Semaj set out to rival the Sultan himself.
Amidst a sea of trepidation and prejudice, Semaj had proven his worth to the High King Snorri of the greater part of the prime northern regions through both his continued survival and continued persistence in persuing the legends surrounding the Well of Mimir. What he hadn't proven in words and rhyme, he'd made clear with steel and spells, a practice he had learned fast in the harsh climes of the north.
Somewhere amongst the blithering idiots and crude barbarians of the snow and tundra he had happened upon the unbelievably useful specimen of Skarvald Aethradisran. A stubborn and boastful thing, he had fallen in with Semaj more on chance than choice, yet they were fast proving to be a strong force. Besides, Semaj could deal with the alcoholism and rampant superstition.
Although he valued Skarvald as a force of help, it would be a stretch to truly call them friends. Business associates perhaps- maybe even partners, but friendship gets you a blade in the backside in the freezing north.
"Well, we had best get to it then." Semaj muttered.
"Yup." Skarvald answered, still staring in the direction of the now absent light ray.
Neither moved. The darkness of the tomb was absolute; it was as if the two stood in an island of light amidst a sea of pitch. The silence was unnerving.
Suddenly, and with a sense of purpose, Skarvald strode forward into the crushing black, leaving a stunned Semaj behind him. Feeling that he should follow the man to make sure nothing untoward happened to him, Semaj hurried into the shadows as well. Skarvald was amazingly useful as both a human pack-mule and bodyguard, and his survival instincts had helped them both on many an occasion. Besides, thought Semaj, who would carry all the loot from their exploration if Skarvald died?
As Semaj strode into the darkness, it was as if a veil had been raised to his eyes. He could no longer perceive the phosphoresence of the lichens and moss up above, nor could he see the radiance of the dammned light-box behind him. The entire realm of his senses were blanketed in shadow, and a cold feeling began creeping up his spine.
He broke into a run, aimlessly sprinting forward in the direction he thought lay the great doors he had seen before. The memory of light in his mind grew fainter and fainter, and he could no longer see in his minds eye the sun. All was blackness, and as the blood ran cold in Semaj's veins and his heart pounded a thunderous beat as if the fevered kettle drums of a tribe of savages grew closer, he felt fear. Fear absolute and numbing such that to cry out would be death and to be silent and keep the absence of peace upon the mind was insanity.
All of this dreadful content came to a halt as Semaj impacted upon something hard and smelling faintly of mead. The fact that he had ran into the backside of Skarvald was not immediately apparent to Semaj. Gradually he could somehow see the man who stood before him, like a blind man realizing that he stood on the edge of an abyss.
Then, far above yet still noticeable to both delvers, two lights appeared in the dark. Creeping down from the ceiling on shafts of unseen air or magic, two orbs of light floated down slowly.
Even as the gasp of amazement left Skarvald's mouth, Semaj realized their danger. Spirits of the dark places of the earth surely drew near, as Semaj recognized the orbs from an old book amongst thousands he had once read. Will O' Wisps, ghosts of those driven to an insane death amongst the ruins of civilization at the fringes of the world. Harbingers of a maddening doom and an icy touch. They needed light to combat this evil, and quickly, for the wispy ghosts of the past thrived in darkness.
"Fast!" Hissed Semaj, pushing Skarvald to the side even as he worked at unlooping his falchion from its scabbard loop. Pulling aside his robes a pace, Semaj selected a small rod of marble that gave off a slight emerald glow as if a mysterious moss inhabited its inner depths. The sickly green of the orbs drew closer, and with a word and a motion of power from the marble rod Skarvald and Semaj were blinded by an explosion of screaming whiteness.
Gradually the blinding light faded, and they were left in darkness once more. Afterimages swam across Skarvald's vision as he picked himself up from the floor. Semaj stowed the rod back inside the folds of his robes once more as he drew forth a taper of steel and flicked his fingers over it.
"Meta Infernum, Esxurge nos!" Semaj whispered to the taper.
Without warning the bit of steel flared with sparking luminesence. Throwing his hands up and away from the heat, Skarvald leant backwards against the doors. The taper fell to the ground and illuminated their immediate surroundings.
"We haven't much time Skarvald. Those wisps won't stay away from a flame this weak for long." Semaj whispered calmly. The orbs were still above them, Skarvald realized as he looked upwards. They floated silently far above, like the glowing eyes of a voracious ghoul. They did not move, and Skarvald looked away quickly lest some spell be cast upon him from the sight.
Skarvald nodded slightly as he got to his feet. Skald-spells and Wizard magic he could tolerate, but the thought of coming closer to those hell-orbs and witch-ghosts sent shivers through his mind. He had heard the stories like all Northerners: undead monstrosities crawling out from the tombs of the past with an unsatiable appetite and superhuman strength. Draugr, they were called. The risen forms of those who perish to the ghosts and shades of the dead. Skarvald muttered a prayer to Odin, Loki and Thor for protection.
Turning to the great doors before them, strange markings began to appear on the black stone. Skarvald began to see these markings as well, and closed his eyes in fear. The barbarians of the north were were a superstitious folk, and Skarvald put much truck in the curses and myths of his people that he frequently heard over a mug of mead at a tavern. Ah, the tavern. Skarvald wished he could be there right now. The life of a clan-less warrior is a lonely one when you lose your ale as well.
"Hmm, most peculiar. They seem to be in Cirth." Semaj noted.
Cirth. The word sounded out like a black bell of doom in Skarvald's mind. The Cirth were an ancient people now only known of in myths and legends too terrible to recount over less than a whole keg of ale. It was whispered over boiling pots of stew in the dark corners of taverns that the Cirth had destroyed themselves a millenia ago when they sought to harness the power of the stars themselves. Supposedly their power was overshadowed by their hubris, and gods struck them down for their arrogance as their empire crumbled and their people were annihilated. Cirth ruins were always bad news.
Unfortunately for many of the superstitious barbarians of the north, Cirth was simply a dialect of the Norse language. A dialect that Semaj had forced Skarvald to teach him over the last few months. At first Skarvald had been unwilling to teach the Arabian wizard, yet when faced with an allergy to alcohol via magical curse, he knew the lesser of two evils. The mead mug is a harsh mistress indeed.
"I think it's a riddle actually." Semaj whispered excitedly.
"Oh great. A riddle." Skarvald thought. Semaj sure did love his riddles.
"I've got an idea Semaj, why don't we just look for another door?" Skarvald queried.
"Another door? I sure do hope you're not afraid Skarvald. I took you for stouter stuff when you slaughtered that cave full of trolls a week ago."
"But I was drunk then, and I had Odin on my side! You can't possibly be chalking that up as an example of-"
"And you're always drinking and boasting of all your glories and victories and feats in battle. Should we ignore those too and abandon this obstacle for some easier and less glorious course?"
"But all the stories are tr-"
"Should we just take to wandering the halls of every ruin we come to afraid and weeping in fear at the possibility of something terrible happening to us, or we going to actively do something about it and make sure it does?!"
Semaj's voice echoed around the chamber then as he and Skarvald both realized the contradiction made in that sentence. Chuckling quietly, Skarvald turned to the door and muttered a string of obscenities as he unbuckled an iron headed warhammer from his back.
"Skarvald, what are you..." Semaj whispered with the raising of an eyebrow questioningly.
The words had barely left his mouth when the warhammer head struck the stone and a brilliant explosion of color erupted out from the door. Magenta and violet sparks flew across Semaj's vision as the smoke and dust cleared. A great hole had been blasted clear through the obsidian stone doors. The strength of Skarvald was no mead hall exaggeration it seemed.
Of Skarvald, Semaj saw a dark form stepping through the passage, the ruined remains of his mighty warhammer clutched in his fur-gloved hands. As the last flames of the flare at his feet went out, Semaj hastily followed into the lighted chamber beyond.
Part 2: Mimir's Fountain & Sacrifice for Knowledge
(Mimisbrunnr eða Blóta leita Fróðleikrskyn)
The shimmering colors that awaited Semaj and Skarvald at the terminus of the borehole the warhammer had made in the wall was a dazzling affair. Nearly falling to their knees in awe and wonder, the warhammer Skarvald held slowly slid from his grasp to clatter to the flagstones of the floor.
Before them rose a gigantic cistern or reservoir of some sort, a great stone bowl that rose almost a hundred feet from the ground. Glimmering faerie fires danced at the edges of the bowl, and leaning on the sill of the waters within was a huge humanoid figure. The visage of that monstrous being could not be discerned in the gloomy effervesence, yet the awesome wheel of colors that danced above what surely was the well that the pair sought illumined all in a flurry of scintillating light.
The pool was gargantuan, and the figure leaning against it inspired terror in Semaj's heart. Steeling his nerves, he discerned no opening nor void in the grey stone of the pool. Semaj suddenly felt a tugging at his robe, as if a wayward Djinn or some spirit was bushing by, yet he turned to face the source of it nonetheless.
It was Skarvald, slightly tugging at the hem of his robes. Semaj opened his mouth to rebuke him, yet he then saw what Skarvald was poiting at with his other hand: a narrow staircase, built into the circumference of the pool. Gently winding upwards, the staircase looked to be very old and made of some peculiar greenish stone.
Semaj nodded silently, fearful to break the quiet and the gentle humming from above. Carefully Skarvald and Semaj crept up the stairs, drawing ever closer to the pool above.
The figure above them, what could only be the hulking form of Mimir himself, slowly inhaled and exhaled. Mist ran down the sides of the stony cistern in rivulets of fog and quicksilver, and the fact that the giant form of one of the sons of the gods did not move did nothing to quell the errant fear that had been driven into the hearts of the two mortals who now ascended the well.
The giant-thing was slumped feebly against the outside of the well, and as Semaj and Skarvald made their ascent they began to perceive the details inherent in that colossal form. The skin of the titanic creature was bronzed and fleshy, yet had the look of molten metal. It flowed over his naked form and gave off a pale light like a guttering torchflame. The gilded gold of the mane of hair that crowned the giant's head was wondrous to behold, and Skarvald began to entertain lavish dreams if he were to cut but a strand from that scalp and profit thereby.
The face of the giant was the turned away from the pair, and as they took in the features of the giant's form, they could hear the slow and nearly silent breaths of the being before them. It was sleeping, Samej realized.
"Keep quiet Skarvald, and perhaps we will be able to steal ourselves a drink." Samej whispered. The sleeping figure before them moved not an inch, it's chest rising and falling slowly.
Mounting the final step upon the high perched sill of the great well of Mimir, Semaj and Skarvald glanced fearfully at the well's guardian again before staring out into the well.
It was empty.
The great well of Mimir was empty. The color wheel that spun above the well like an oriental light-show began to turn in myriad patterns and arcs, showering the well with curious strands of pearlescent light. Illuminating the inner depths of the darkened well, Semaj and Skarvald could see all the way down to the bottom. Not a drop of any fluid to drink showed itself to their eyes, and Skarvald let out a low growl of frustration.
As they stared down into the dusty depths of the well before them, a slight tremor shook the ground. Semaj and Skarvald drew their gazes up from the emptiness and met each others look of abject fear. Seeing a tremble of movement from the corner of their eyes, the pair slowly turned around.
The giant thing that rested before on the side of the well had moved, and now stood towering above them like a basalt statue of terror. The colorful lights of the wheel behind them cast a frightful phosphoresence of colors and strata across the room, and even as their eyes met the kneecaps of the titan that now stood over them, their wits were addled when a booming voice thundered out from a mouth that had been closed for an age or more.
"Interlopers! Trespassers! I have been the guardian of this well for countless epochs of the Earth, and of its waters I have drunk plentifully! Yet now in my slumber of eons I find myself awakened by thieves!" The voice shook to the keystones of the countless and unseen archways that supported the dirt of the ceiling, quaking the hearts and minds of the mere mortals that stood before this titan of antiquity. An unstoppable relic of a fantastical past.
Semaj and Skarvald averted their gazes as their minds turned to a possible escape. Skarvald wished fervently that he was in a tavern now, and began to realize that the last time he had been drunk was more than a week ago. His hand began to creep towards the axe at his belt as he began to entertain all the interestingly violent ways that he could even begin to injure a being like that of the living god that stood before him.
Eyes darting about the chamber, Semaj began to formulate various stratagems for escape. The fact that victory was possible did not dawn on the intellectually focused mind of the wizard, as he was more interested in saving his own skin than any worldly glory. Unfortunately, most of these many ideas ended in either his or Skarvald's death.
The eyes of the titan before them glowed furiously then, as if a dozen witches had begun a bonfire within his brain. He drew back from the pair as if in fear then, yet reasserted himself as Semaj and Skarvald's hands drew forth their weapons. The cerulean wand topped with azure crystals lept to Semaj's gloved hand as Skarvald drew forth his largest battle-axe, a fearsome thing with a pommel of skulls and silver spikes topped with rivets of cold iron.
"I, Mimir of the Well, will kill you where you stand! The future I have seen will not come to pass! I will yet live to sleep another age!" The giant Mimir yelled as Semaj and Skarvald wondered a pace at the cryptic words. Reaching up a gigantic hand, Mimir grasped a column of stone that braced two of the walls above. Pulling with might that only a living godling could muster, he tore the column from its ancient stone moorings.
Spinning about then with impossible speed, he slammed the gargantuan column down upon the spot where the two mortals had stood- yet they stood there no longer.
As Semaj worked a spell of levitation with the wand in his grasp, Skarvald braced his legs against the stone of the well's sill. Semaj watched the giant stone column that Mimir held sweep down upon Skarvald, and yelled a warning.
Yet Skarvald was nowhere to be seen. Mimir looked up and about for the warrior when he felt a prickling sensation on his arms. Letting go of the battered but intact stone column, he realized what had transpired.
Skarvald had jumped at the exact moment required for him to land on the arms of his foe. Even now, he ran up the biceps of Mimir, brushing aside the hairs of the godling like brush and weeds. His axe was clenched in his hands, and his baleful stare gazed out from inside his horned helm like the eyes of a wrathful demon awoken from its slumber.
Mimir shook his arms then to dislodge the pest that drew near as Semaj sent a crackling ray of electricity surging out from his wand. Crackling in midair, the lightning flowed around Semaj's form as he intoned secret words of power that took thousands of sacrifices to discover. The living lightning burst forth from some invisible cage then, splitting in midair to impact Mimir directly in the chest.
Falling back a step, Skarvald planted his iron boot in the godling's armpit as he bounded upwards. Drawing up his axe, he smote down upon Mimir's perfect face as a cry of blooded rage tore itself from his throat. Semaj's lightning winked out, and the blow fell in slow motion for the wizard.
The blade had barely grazed the giant nose of Mimir when its holder was swatted out of the air by Mimir's interposing hand. Skarvald gave a grunt of pain as he was sent flying across the chamber, impacting against the far wall with a crack of stone. His horned helmet flew off his head to clatter to the broken flagstones below as he slid down the wall to fall to the floor. His axe landed nearby, the shaft cloven in two.
Mimir laughed then, a great bellowing laugh that is common to those who think themselves the rulers of the worlds of mortals. Semaj floated slowly back as he watched Skarvald hit the wall.
"Now is my chance, Mimir is distracted and I can make my escape!" Semaj thought excitedly, quite sure of the sad fact of Skarvald's death.
But Mimir's laugh was cut short as Semaj reached the doors to the chamber. Skarvald gave a low growl as he painfully hauled himself up from the floor, dragging a half-broken throwing axe from his belt. Semaj gasped at the fortitude of Skarvald, yet his mind continued to yell at him to flee and save himself. Skarvald was doomed surely.
Yet something else came unbidden to Semaj's thoughts. The image of the solitary warrior from the north standing alone against the darkness of the unspeakable past struck a chord within Semaj's being. Were they not both orphans of the world, Skarvald and him? The barbarian running from a past only hinted at amidst drunken ramblings and sleepy mutterings, and the arrogant and godless scholar from Baghdad who put more truck in magic than religion or the opinions of others were kindred spirits. They were exiles from their peoples, living on the fringes. They were surely a precious commodity.
Skarvald lined up his throwing axe to Mimir's kneecap even as the godling strode forth angrily. Taking a step back for balance, Skarvald pitched the axe over his shoulder and sent it spinning through the air. Mimir barked a laugh as he sidestepped the pathetic attack, and clenched his hands in eagerness as he came near to the object of his battle-rage.
Drawing forth the only weapon that remained to him, Skarvald balanced the other throwing axe in his right hand as he took and step back. As he was about to cast it into space, a sight filled his eyes. It seemed as if time had slowed to a crawl, as Mimir moved as if old and tired. The light illuminating the room from the color wheel above the empty well above grew dark as shades of black and white spread across the expanse of the stone.
A cold wind blew, and a ghostly figure appeared to Skarvald's right. It was Semaj, who had expended the last of his powers to weave a spell of such power that it had slowed time for all but Skarvald and him. Even as Skarvald's bruised visage met his blank stare, Semaj took hold of the warrior's axe and spoke a word of power. The axe-head glowed with a fierce light then, seeming to catch the light of the room in every possible way as it refracted and reflected across the blade's edge.
Semaj pitched backwards then, fainting from the use of such mighty magicks, yet his wizardly mind still lingered as time sped up and the spell that had taken hold of Mimir ended.
The godling rushed forth as it had been, roaring furiously as he strode forth towards the mortal before him. With each titanic step the chamber trembled, and the fires that burned in the pits of Mimir's eyes danced wildly with the maddened beating of his own great heart.
Skarvald balanced the shining axe in his right hand as he drew it back behind himself. Lining up the throw, Skarvald tensed his muscles for the perfect shot.
However, the stress of a gigantic godlike being rushing towards Semaj's only hope and salvation had an interesting effect on his mental state, resulting in a thundering voice echoing through Sharvald's consciousness.
"JUST THROW THE BLOODY AXE YOU FOOL!" Roared the mental voice of Semaj.
Skarvald was startled into action, pitching the axe into the air before him with a mighty stroke and a roar of defiance.
The axe spun faster and faster through the air until it no longer resembled an axe. Like spinning discus of energy, it sliced through the air towards Mimir's widening eyes.
"Noooooooooooooooo!" Mimir yelled as he attempted to retard his charge, digging in his heels and casting his hands around for a hold.
Yet for all his godlike strength, nothing could stop the axe of Skarvald. With a sound like a bull elephant being snapped in half, Mimir's form shuddered as his head left his shoulders. Spinning through space and still contorted in a rictus of dread and terrible fear, Mimir's head slammed down into the floor before Skarvald as the dead godling's body collapsed to the stones of the chamber floor. The guardian of the well was dead.
Skarvald took this chance to collapse onto his back, his wounds numbering in the dozens. As darkness took him, he realized how incredibly thirsty he was, and to think of dying thirsty brough sadness to his heart. He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he regained consciousness, yet he opened his eyes to a familiar muttering and a scent like that of berries and cow dung.
Rising to a prone position, Skarvald became aware of the various splints and bandages that he now wore. His armor was neatly arranged on the floor nearby, and other than his undergarments he now wore what surely must have been a mile length of gauze. He looked quizzically at Semaj, who was in the process of applying a bandage to his hand which had been nearly broken from the strain of casting the enchanted battle axe at the godling Mimir.
As Semaj drew back from the barbarian to admire his work, he offered a hand to help the man up. Ignoring him, Skarvald got to his feet shakily, nodding a thanks to Semaj for the aid which he was sure he did not need anyway.
The smoking head of Mimir the guardian of the well sat before them. The eyelids were open, and the eyes shone dimly in the flourescent light of the chamber. Skarvald considered his once mighty foe, muttering a small prayer to Thor to guide Mimir's soul to Valhalla as reward for the glory he had been given in fighting and defeating him. For the most part, Skarvald had forgotten that Semaj had enchanted his axe to even damage the giant.
"Curious. The blood of our enemy does not seem to flow." Semaj whispered.
Skarvald grunted a questioning sound as he bent down to retrieve his horned helmet, planting it on his bandaged head.
"Observe." Semaj said, as he drew forth a long knife from his belt. The athame was a sacred tool of the wizards of the world, and was remarkably useful in both the draining of fluids in and out of combat.
Semaj bent over the head of Mimir then, slicing the athame into his neck. A spurt of watery, clear fluid sprayed out from the wound. Semaj plunged the athame deeper then, until a small spring of fluid leapt forth with a surprising amount of force.
"That is not water, Skarvald." Semaj said as they both knelt down before the dismembered head.
Then they both heard it: whispers in the darkness around them. As Skarvald sprung to his feet, overbalanced and fell on his rump, the room awoke with a chorus of whispers and voices. Among them all, a single deep baritone could be heard.
"I am the guardian of the well of Mimir, for Mimir I am and Mimir I will always be." The voice intoned sagely.
Semaj and Skarvald shared a gaze of confusion as the voice continued its monologue.
"The gods have decreed that no mortal may drink from the waters of the well, for the sacrifice is too great when one considers the reward to be infinite knowledge. I am no mortal, and thus I am not bound as the humans of Earth are."
The gears of Semaj's mind began to turn as he realized what the fluid he was drawn from Mimir's head really was.
"I have consumed the waters of the well, and in doing so shall protect them forevermore. They are a part of me now, and though I buy them with a great pain, I shall risk no theft to their substance. For I am the Keeper of the Well, and may the gods forgive me for what I have done."
The voices went silent as the color wheel above the empty well winked out. The chamber was illuminated by an opalescent light then, as if the pearls of a thousand clams were encrusted in the ceiling. The light gathered and clumped in clouds of luminesence around Semaj and Skarvald as they considered the liquid knowledge that lay at their feet.
"Well, I am really thirsty." Skarvald chuckled as Semaj gave him a smug look.
* * *
In the darkness of the tomb, a ghostly figure sat on the edge of the dry well of Mimir. The figure had the form of a young boy, clothed in almost nothing yet possessing a body so perfect that he had to have been a spawn of the Gods.
Looking down on the mouldering remains of the corpse below him, the boy began to play a soft melody on his harp, letting his thoughts drift off in ignorance of his surroundings. The music echoed throughout the halls, and for a time even the gods forgot their burdens and their schemes and listened to the music of justice- blind and ignorant.
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