'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.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Lucid Dream #1- The Very Old Room
Date: 11/8/2011
Total Sleep Time: 1 1/2 hours
Time of Day: Afternoon
I was dreaming I was at a party in some academical school attire. I was sleeping just after getting home from a Neurology appointment that morning, where I had been referred to an MRI/MRA radiology clinic for Saturday to see if I had brain cancer or something else.
I hadn't slept much the previous night, maybe 3-4 hours and had awoken extremely tired and lethargic.
I was dreaming as I said that I was at a sort of academical function or social at NOVA. In the middle of the dream, my thoughts strayed somehow to how the room looked like the Western HS Auditorium, and something just clicked. I yelled "I banish the dream!" and all motion stopped. I was consciously thinking during the dream- I could stop all motion of dream characters and faceless professors around me with a thought. As the dream stopped and I stood amongst the crowd, I forced the dream to get rid of this scene. I don't HOW I did it, I just yelled "I banish the dream" and everything instantly changed.
I was in a place I remembered from a dream that I had had years ago. I had not remembered the dream upon awakening, yet I realized while lucid that I had been to this dream realm before.
The room was of worked sandstone or limestone. To the north were two ceiling high doorways that led to a small drainage hole or sump or garden. Inside the room was a dirt floor and a sense of something very old and primal.
I could feel my heartbeat as a feeling of a pounding all around me. The room was rectangular, and the right wall was bare of any markings. However, the left wall had a large doorway with a wooden lintel around it that led- I knew- to a maze. At the end of this maze lay a small chamber with a scattering of bronze and brass toys and swords and shields. I had visited and traversed that maze the last time I had dreamt this dream. I had touched those very same objects and awoken with a feeling of extreme joy.
Now however, I felt that my path was not the maze. I had finished with that area of the dream for now. I walked down one of two small staircases to a lowered area of the floor. The ground was colder here, and there was a slight rain outside. Ahead of me was a doorway I had not noticed before that led into a bright and shining light that seemed self-contained in that the light did not spill out of the doorway or the area beyond. I remember looking behind me to the garden outside, yet the rain looked torrential and I shied away, walking towards the light. I walked without hesitation towards the light, and the next thing I knew I had awoken in my bed, unbidden and alone.
The light of the setting sun shone in through the blinds on a window, and I remembered.
Total Sleep Time: 1 1/2 hours
Time of Day: Afternoon
I was dreaming I was at a party in some academical school attire. I was sleeping just after getting home from a Neurology appointment that morning, where I had been referred to an MRI/MRA radiology clinic for Saturday to see if I had brain cancer or something else.
I hadn't slept much the previous night, maybe 3-4 hours and had awoken extremely tired and lethargic.
I was dreaming as I said that I was at a sort of academical function or social at NOVA. In the middle of the dream, my thoughts strayed somehow to how the room looked like the Western HS Auditorium, and something just clicked. I yelled "I banish the dream!" and all motion stopped. I was consciously thinking during the dream- I could stop all motion of dream characters and faceless professors around me with a thought. As the dream stopped and I stood amongst the crowd, I forced the dream to get rid of this scene. I don't HOW I did it, I just yelled "I banish the dream" and everything instantly changed.
I was in a place I remembered from a dream that I had had years ago. I had not remembered the dream upon awakening, yet I realized while lucid that I had been to this dream realm before.
The room was of worked sandstone or limestone. To the north were two ceiling high doorways that led to a small drainage hole or sump or garden. Inside the room was a dirt floor and a sense of something very old and primal.
I could feel my heartbeat as a feeling of a pounding all around me. The room was rectangular, and the right wall was bare of any markings. However, the left wall had a large doorway with a wooden lintel around it that led- I knew- to a maze. At the end of this maze lay a small chamber with a scattering of bronze and brass toys and swords and shields. I had visited and traversed that maze the last time I had dreamt this dream. I had touched those very same objects and awoken with a feeling of extreme joy.
Now however, I felt that my path was not the maze. I had finished with that area of the dream for now. I walked down one of two small staircases to a lowered area of the floor. The ground was colder here, and there was a slight rain outside. Ahead of me was a doorway I had not noticed before that led into a bright and shining light that seemed self-contained in that the light did not spill out of the doorway or the area beyond. I remember looking behind me to the garden outside, yet the rain looked torrential and I shied away, walking towards the light. I walked without hesitation towards the light, and the next thing I knew I had awoken in my bed, unbidden and alone.
The light of the setting sun shone in through the blinds on a window, and I remembered.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Look Down
The world. So blue. So green. So rich with life.
A landmass. Birds flit amongst the clouds.
A forest. The calls of various avian creatures alight in the air.
A field. Sunflowers dance around the rays of sunshine.
A patch of grass. What makes this patch different from the many other thousand patches?
The blades themselves...stabbing upwards towards the endless blue above.
The blades lie below actually, in the earth below. A skeleton. Unmarked grave. A knight in shining armor, now tarnished and dirty.
The blade, one large thing that would dwarf all the blades of the grass above.
A King buried below its subjects.
A landmass. Birds flit amongst the clouds.
A forest. The calls of various avian creatures alight in the air.
A field. Sunflowers dance around the rays of sunshine.
A patch of grass. What makes this patch different from the many other thousand patches?
The blades themselves...stabbing upwards towards the endless blue above.
The blades lie below actually, in the earth below. A skeleton. Unmarked grave. A knight in shining armor, now tarnished and dirty.
The blade, one large thing that would dwarf all the blades of the grass above.
A King buried below its subjects.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Chu-Do (Lady of Hunger) & The Old-Atom-Bomb Dreams
The first dream, lest I forget, includes 3 others and I piloting large Gundam-like mobile suits. The cockpits are flooded with a clear liquid and we are sealed within pressurized suits, making it respond to all of our commands. There are these drill-like things on our heads that open locks with strange kanji on them, and we are shrunk down to microscopic size to infiltrate a secret base smaller than the tip of a pencil.
Later, I leave my ship near some type of prearranged location (after becoming large again) near Coney Island. I disembark and meet with the other pilots and myself from the past(there are 8, only 4 will make it through training to the rank of pilot), learning from the lead scientist that he wants me to set off an "atom" bomb before going back into the future, sabotaging the moon. At my questioning glance he points up to the moon, which is aglow with the thousands of people, buildings and structures of the Moon Empire.
I nod and go back to my ship, where the other pilots and I face down shadowy microscopic robots. We then board the largest robot we can find, and all of us perish except me. I am able to land on the largest ones motherboard and overload its CPU, splitting the atoms in its quantum computer and catapulting my back to the future where, carrying the damaged suits of my comrades I watch the moon flicker on and off before going dim.
-----------------------
In the next dream, I find myself in a tent out in the desert. Me and a fair skinned oriental woman are preparing to enter an otherworldly place home to the Lady of Hunger, where we can learn forbidden secrets. The place resembles a 100ft tall rectangular structure with 3 large circular drainage openings 10ft off the ground. It looks as if liquid has passed through the drains before, but they are dry now. On one side of the short sides there are 2 walls that extend straight out from the structure about 30ft. There are 4 hooks near the summit of each wall, spaced 6ft from each other. On each hook is the naked corpse of a man or woman. There is a simple wooden door inset onto the structure here, with a placard above it that reads "Only once may the warmth of life pass through me."
My guide instructs me that we must take a different entrance, and we use a grappling hook to ascend to one of the drains, cut through with files, and gain the drainage works. As we descend into the den, which is of rusted steel and brightly painted wood, my foot brushes against a chain suspended from the ceiling and makes a twinkling noise.
A great, fat woman, unbelievably fat in fact, stirs up from the far side of the room. We hurriedly stuff our mouths with seeds from bags we brought, as the hungry forces in the chamber would suck the life from the seeds rather than us. The rule is to never speak unless you have something in your mouth. We apologize for disturbing the woman, called Great Lady Hunger, and I inquire as to learning the dark crafts of her knowledge. She softens a bit, and asks if I desire Gans-shur-kam, a ritual where my tongue would be sliced down the middle and "the shingles clipped off as it makes when folded over". I politely refuse, even though the woman tells me it would "place me closer to Chu-do, world of the hungry dead, than anything else."
Great Lady Hunger then shows me another visitor who arrived but a decade ago: a once fat man, bald and slit-eyed oriental, sits in one corner of the dank and dark room. He shivers and mouths strange words as one of his hands, covered in sores peeling and pooling foul, scribes obscene pictograms and words into a large book before him. He shivers in the warmth of the chamber, and all that I can make of his face is that he is silently crying as flecks of blood spill from his mouth as each individual side of his tongue writhes of its own accord.
Turning away from the grisly scene, I inquire as to the Lady's hospitality. She apologizes hurriedly and offers me and my guide sushi and varied pots of noodles. As the nuts in my mouth begin to wash away, I ask for her promise that the food is not poisoned, as it is said that the food of hunger is more greedy than hunger itself. She states it is not, and a green miasma lifts off of the food. As I replace the nuts in my mouth with the food and greens before me, she states that the food of hunger can also be thoughts. As I ponder this, she states further that to be polite, a promise should make a promise, and she desires for company. I promise to stay with her for a week, and I do so: never sleeping, never talking without food in my mouth.
Of my week spent with Great Lady Hunger, I learn many secrets of spellcraft both horrible and amazing. The great knowledge of the skeleton comes easy, yet at one point my guide attempts to take some food without asking permission. The food burns her from within, and she drops her nutbag with a clatter as she disappears screaming into the darkness. The nuts I have left now dwindling, I leave the chamber in a daze with a book similar to the one the man who was one with Chu-do was scribing. A gift for the gift of company to a hungry soul, a small dead dog follows me loyally out into the desert as the nuts spill from my mouth.
Later, I leave my ship near some type of prearranged location (after becoming large again) near Coney Island. I disembark and meet with the other pilots and myself from the past(there are 8, only 4 will make it through training to the rank of pilot), learning from the lead scientist that he wants me to set off an "atom" bomb before going back into the future, sabotaging the moon. At my questioning glance he points up to the moon, which is aglow with the thousands of people, buildings and structures of the Moon Empire.
I nod and go back to my ship, where the other pilots and I face down shadowy microscopic robots. We then board the largest robot we can find, and all of us perish except me. I am able to land on the largest ones motherboard and overload its CPU, splitting the atoms in its quantum computer and catapulting my back to the future where, carrying the damaged suits of my comrades I watch the moon flicker on and off before going dim.
-----------------------
In the next dream, I find myself in a tent out in the desert. Me and a fair skinned oriental woman are preparing to enter an otherworldly place home to the Lady of Hunger, where we can learn forbidden secrets. The place resembles a 100ft tall rectangular structure with 3 large circular drainage openings 10ft off the ground. It looks as if liquid has passed through the drains before, but they are dry now. On one side of the short sides there are 2 walls that extend straight out from the structure about 30ft. There are 4 hooks near the summit of each wall, spaced 6ft from each other. On each hook is the naked corpse of a man or woman. There is a simple wooden door inset onto the structure here, with a placard above it that reads "Only once may the warmth of life pass through me."
My guide instructs me that we must take a different entrance, and we use a grappling hook to ascend to one of the drains, cut through with files, and gain the drainage works. As we descend into the den, which is of rusted steel and brightly painted wood, my foot brushes against a chain suspended from the ceiling and makes a twinkling noise.
A great, fat woman, unbelievably fat in fact, stirs up from the far side of the room. We hurriedly stuff our mouths with seeds from bags we brought, as the hungry forces in the chamber would suck the life from the seeds rather than us. The rule is to never speak unless you have something in your mouth. We apologize for disturbing the woman, called Great Lady Hunger, and I inquire as to learning the dark crafts of her knowledge. She softens a bit, and asks if I desire Gans-shur-kam, a ritual where my tongue would be sliced down the middle and "the shingles clipped off as it makes when folded over". I politely refuse, even though the woman tells me it would "place me closer to Chu-do, world of the hungry dead, than anything else."
Great Lady Hunger then shows me another visitor who arrived but a decade ago: a once fat man, bald and slit-eyed oriental, sits in one corner of the dank and dark room. He shivers and mouths strange words as one of his hands, covered in sores peeling and pooling foul, scribes obscene pictograms and words into a large book before him. He shivers in the warmth of the chamber, and all that I can make of his face is that he is silently crying as flecks of blood spill from his mouth as each individual side of his tongue writhes of its own accord.
Turning away from the grisly scene, I inquire as to the Lady's hospitality. She apologizes hurriedly and offers me and my guide sushi and varied pots of noodles. As the nuts in my mouth begin to wash away, I ask for her promise that the food is not poisoned, as it is said that the food of hunger is more greedy than hunger itself. She states it is not, and a green miasma lifts off of the food. As I replace the nuts in my mouth with the food and greens before me, she states that the food of hunger can also be thoughts. As I ponder this, she states further that to be polite, a promise should make a promise, and she desires for company. I promise to stay with her for a week, and I do so: never sleeping, never talking without food in my mouth.
Of my week spent with Great Lady Hunger, I learn many secrets of spellcraft both horrible and amazing. The great knowledge of the skeleton comes easy, yet at one point my guide attempts to take some food without asking permission. The food burns her from within, and she drops her nutbag with a clatter as she disappears screaming into the darkness. The nuts I have left now dwindling, I leave the chamber in a daze with a book similar to the one the man who was one with Chu-do was scribing. A gift for the gift of company to a hungry soul, a small dead dog follows me loyally out into the desert as the nuts spill from my mouth.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Gamean Tree
I am sitting on a log with a bunch of other young boys as a large Hercules like man strides up and down the line calling out for someone to match the courage of Arcus Aurelios. I stand up as he tosses two boys aside proclaiming them to match the courage of a pithy nemeian scout. The rest of most of the boys and I follow him to a cliff with a huge olive tree growing out of the side of it. The man explains that this is the Gamean Tree, old with the weight of centuries. Growing on its farthest branch is a single fruit. The man explains that we must overpass the courage required to reach that fruit and retrieve it. Many of the boys climb out onto the tree courageously, but I stay back until I am one of three left. The man asks me why I hesitate, and I ask him the origins of the tree as the last boy plummets to his death to the sunbleached ruins below. He explains that the Gamean Tree was originally carved of Gaia's very roots, yet in its time under the hard sun and under the yoke of insects, it has become irritable and sunburned. Another boy falls to his death as the very branches shake under him. I run down the cliff a ways to retrieve some mud, and as I scale the tree I apply the cool wetness to its branches. Nothing moves. The tree is still as I moisturize it. I pluck the bright white fruit and bring it back to the man. He smiles and motions me and the other remaining two boys to follow.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Wish
one day long ago,
a band of thieves found a cove,
filled with treasure so remote,
from orderly civilization to be trove
and a dagger wielding rogue found
a small jug or lamp full and round
among the treasure in a hoard
full enough to make him a lord
he uncorked the jug with fervor bold
letting loose the dark and wet smells of old
as a mist around him began to form
as the mist around the light did scorn
a great djinn rose to the ceiling
his power was so great, the rogue went reeling
in a tongue of lapis and silver he spoke
chanting the rogues freedom from the yoke
to the rogue he promised desires dual
for two of his promises to be made full
the rogue cried out in joy
and his look turned clever and sly
he wished for great power first,
over man and woman thus,
he wished for magicks terrible second,
to rule on high as King eternal
and with that the djinn did vanish,
his task finished, the dissolving mist of lapis,
heralded the bright new dawn,
for the rogue turned King of pawns
and as his soul was black as death,
azure it became in curious wealth,
he strove for knowledge and understanding,
sat for many hours under noisome tutors pandering
the sands of the sun,
black and fired became,
as the western kingdom,
wished for power of the same
and in the borders around,
that hellish circumference found,
the Antithesis of all was born,
to lead a people lost and forlorn
and from their soft and aerie perch,
the angels of above cried,
as heaven, hell and aether tied,
were cut off from earth
and without that heavenly host at call,
the men of earth were set to fall
till a champion rose up at last,
with blade slash and magicks that blast
and with power granted unto him,
by a spirit unknown to the above,
banished the evils that he once wore himself,
into the pages of forgotten lore
and as the heavens, hells and earths were again tied,
God came down in wondrous form to chide,
to congratulate and revoke,
the rogue who had broken free from divine yoke
and as he became a man once again,
the rogue was granted a single desire by God,
and the thought of power did cross his mind at length,
yet was banished summarily by an idea and nod
and he whose soul had been black,
and changed to lapis and back,
wished a wish to make his soul pure and white,
spoken in truest form, a language of starlight:
"Forgive Judas."
a band of thieves found a cove,
filled with treasure so remote,
from orderly civilization to be trove
and a dagger wielding rogue found
a small jug or lamp full and round
among the treasure in a hoard
full enough to make him a lord
he uncorked the jug with fervor bold
letting loose the dark and wet smells of old
as a mist around him began to form
as the mist around the light did scorn
a great djinn rose to the ceiling
his power was so great, the rogue went reeling
in a tongue of lapis and silver he spoke
chanting the rogues freedom from the yoke
to the rogue he promised desires dual
for two of his promises to be made full
the rogue cried out in joy
and his look turned clever and sly
he wished for great power first,
over man and woman thus,
he wished for magicks terrible second,
to rule on high as King eternal
and with that the djinn did vanish,
his task finished, the dissolving mist of lapis,
heralded the bright new dawn,
for the rogue turned King of pawns
and as his soul was black as death,
azure it became in curious wealth,
he strove for knowledge and understanding,
sat for many hours under noisome tutors pandering
the sands of the sun,
black and fired became,
as the western kingdom,
wished for power of the same
and in the borders around,
that hellish circumference found,
the Antithesis of all was born,
to lead a people lost and forlorn
and from their soft and aerie perch,
the angels of above cried,
as heaven, hell and aether tied,
were cut off from earth
and without that heavenly host at call,
the men of earth were set to fall
till a champion rose up at last,
with blade slash and magicks that blast
and with power granted unto him,
by a spirit unknown to the above,
banished the evils that he once wore himself,
into the pages of forgotten lore
and as the heavens, hells and earths were again tied,
God came down in wondrous form to chide,
to congratulate and revoke,
the rogue who had broken free from divine yoke
and as he became a man once again,
the rogue was granted a single desire by God,
and the thought of power did cross his mind at length,
yet was banished summarily by an idea and nod
and he whose soul had been black,
and changed to lapis and back,
wished a wish to make his soul pure and white,
spoken in truest form, a language of starlight:
"Forgive Judas."
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Druc: The Library that is Not
(Yet more fluff. I wrote this about 2 months ago.)
On the great library of Maljinn, much can be said. A unique form of knowledge storage, the "library" is also known as the "Druc" or "Hall". Built into the base slopes of Mt. Strohm itself, the Druc resembles a semicircular tunnel of sandstone with a sloped ceiling and walls such that there are no corners. Books and scrolls brought here for storage are not clumsily stacked upon one another in wooden shelves. Works of knowledge are formed into easily accessible runes inscribed into the sandstone of the Druc. A simple dweomer accesses a rune and either displays its contents as a major illusory copy of the book/scroll which may be examined in the central veiwing area of the Druc or allows the caster to query its contents for an answer or where such an answer may be found.
The main passage of the Druc is open to the air above and features 3 staircases leading down into the Central Way, of which the 2 secondary passages exit from. Three foot diameter holes in the ceiling illuminate the Central Way, as do braziers lit during night. The Sijani, white robed librarians, wander amongst the runes, selling Runetell dweomers to supplicants and each wearing a Ring of Flying to access the Runes above, yet the ring only functions in the Druc. The Central Way houses approximately 900,000 works. The library is open from sunrise to sunset, yet the Old Way is open only from noon to 3:00pm.
The Sijani number at less than 20, and are all humans of a non-descript persona and form. They are led by a Grand-Scribe, who is currently a female Mage of the Grey Powers named Sisrain Alquyn.
Older, and more restricted works of more power and influence are held behind a long, blank walled, guarded, limestone corridor accessible by a 9ft tall limestone archway in the far center outer area of the Central Way. Beyond the corridor awaits a grand spiral staircase down, which takes approximately 20 minutes to descend. The staircase ends in a pitch black storage area with a Golden archway on the far wall. Beyond the last arch awaits a great hall with walls ascending up into the darkness. The Runes on these walls are much larger than those in the Central Way, and the hall extends a full mile out from the arch. Each Rune covers the entirety of a 15ft width of each wall, and there numbers about 95 works of a powerful or dangerous nature here. All supplicants in the Old Way require an armed escort of 3 Blue Guards and 2 Sijani Scribes. Those who resist being escorted back are left behind, as the guards will only harm anyone in self-defense of themselves or the Sijani. The Old Way is locked magically and is only open-able from noon to 3:00pm. Due to the size of the spiral staircase, all supplicants, Scholars and Guards are to be ascending the staircase by 2:25pm. It is unknown why such strict rules surround the Old Way, yet those foolish enough to linger after the mark of tbe third hour are not heard or seen from again come tomorrows noon.
Of curious interest is what lies at the end of the mile long corridor of the Old Way. A great door, seemingly made of the dullest gold, lies shut against all. No sounds may be heard from what lies beyond it, and it is unadorned with any known magic or adornments or gems. Rumours say that the door was uncovered when the hall was being mined in old times. It is unknown if the door opens or is open-able. Rumours append the disappearance of all who stay longer than 3pm to the door letting loose some type of horror and then closing come next noon.
The atmosphere in the old way is slightly chilly and musty. The Sijani say the silence is what bothers them the most.
On the great library of Maljinn, much can be said. A unique form of knowledge storage, the "library" is also known as the "Druc" or "Hall". Built into the base slopes of Mt. Strohm itself, the Druc resembles a semicircular tunnel of sandstone with a sloped ceiling and walls such that there are no corners. Books and scrolls brought here for storage are not clumsily stacked upon one another in wooden shelves. Works of knowledge are formed into easily accessible runes inscribed into the sandstone of the Druc. A simple dweomer accesses a rune and either displays its contents as a major illusory copy of the book/scroll which may be examined in the central veiwing area of the Druc or allows the caster to query its contents for an answer or where such an answer may be found.
The main passage of the Druc is open to the air above and features 3 staircases leading down into the Central Way, of which the 2 secondary passages exit from. Three foot diameter holes in the ceiling illuminate the Central Way, as do braziers lit during night. The Sijani, white robed librarians, wander amongst the runes, selling Runetell dweomers to supplicants and each wearing a Ring of Flying to access the Runes above, yet the ring only functions in the Druc. The Central Way houses approximately 900,000 works. The library is open from sunrise to sunset, yet the Old Way is open only from noon to 3:00pm.
The Sijani number at less than 20, and are all humans of a non-descript persona and form. They are led by a Grand-Scribe, who is currently a female Mage of the Grey Powers named Sisrain Alquyn.
Older, and more restricted works of more power and influence are held behind a long, blank walled, guarded, limestone corridor accessible by a 9ft tall limestone archway in the far center outer area of the Central Way. Beyond the corridor awaits a grand spiral staircase down, which takes approximately 20 minutes to descend. The staircase ends in a pitch black storage area with a Golden archway on the far wall. Beyond the last arch awaits a great hall with walls ascending up into the darkness. The Runes on these walls are much larger than those in the Central Way, and the hall extends a full mile out from the arch. Each Rune covers the entirety of a 15ft width of each wall, and there numbers about 95 works of a powerful or dangerous nature here. All supplicants in the Old Way require an armed escort of 3 Blue Guards and 2 Sijani Scribes. Those who resist being escorted back are left behind, as the guards will only harm anyone in self-defense of themselves or the Sijani. The Old Way is locked magically and is only open-able from noon to 3:00pm. Due to the size of the spiral staircase, all supplicants, Scholars and Guards are to be ascending the staircase by 2:25pm. It is unknown why such strict rules surround the Old Way, yet those foolish enough to linger after the mark of tbe third hour are not heard or seen from again come tomorrows noon.
Of curious interest is what lies at the end of the mile long corridor of the Old Way. A great door, seemingly made of the dullest gold, lies shut against all. No sounds may be heard from what lies beyond it, and it is unadorned with any known magic or adornments or gems. Rumours say that the door was uncovered when the hall was being mined in old times. It is unknown if the door opens or is open-able. Rumours append the disappearance of all who stay longer than 3pm to the door letting loose some type of horror and then closing come next noon.
The atmosphere in the old way is slightly chilly and musty. The Sijani say the silence is what bothers them the most.
Dream, dreamt on the night of March 30th, 2010
I am once again a rather roguish character exploring a ruined keep surrounded by jungle or silent wood up the coast from a picturesque port surrounded by gypsies. I had heard of the ruin from an aged fellow of the Rom, and within I find golems of iron and steel and oil, a guardian of time itself: the crumbling stones of the keep. Narrowly avoiding the stones and falling debris, I pick a lock or two to a more pristine hall of golems fair in combat. They fall more due to rust and wear and tear than my blades, and on a pedastal trapped somewhat I find the hunting bow of a long lost king and 3 arrows of ashwood with featherings of crow and raven. I feel watched, and I hurry with my prize to the terrace above as a dark terror seems to emanate from my previous path. I make the terrace and come upon a medusa of stone and a golem of crystal and metallic. An arrow for each, and they fall in surprise, the arrow falling to splinters on each. I hurriedly gather up their loot: a blade of crystal, rings and baubles, wands of magic potential and jewels fat and rich, a helm of cobalt and leather of a hundred perfectly skinned snakes. As colors bleed into one another, the keep explodes, throwing me atop a minaret of old gold into the sea. I wash up on the shore near the gypsy camp, and before I can gather my possessions and steal a horse a woman waithe runs off with the helm of blue stone. I follow for a time, but, weary and battered and wet, I lay off and take rest in a palatial inn.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Dream, dreamt on the night of March 27th, 2010
An assortment of muppet characters steal all of my belongings out of my house. Then I see a woman standing on a train holding the shoulder of an elderly woman with white hair but turned awaywhile the train speeds into a cement wall and crashes but as the train is compacting the woman turns to me with black hair and opens her mouth. Then the train reverts back to moving normally but the elderly woman is at the end of the train looking away. The other woman turns towards me but as she is pulled towards the window by an unseen force she whispers "Natalie". Then I am standing in space above a beach, having an arguement with Poseidon, Hades and Hermes about delegation of authority.
I use Apollo, Ares and Hermes as an example in talking about getting someone else to help judge the proper recipient of something but I cant remember the words I use. Then I quote a line from a movie that represents this, and Zeus himself appears (I then remember discussing the other gods waking Zeus up to solve this problem. He says that I was the only one wise enough to see the chaos inherent in the discussion, and as he lights up the twinkie shaped gallery we are in he begins to trace a finger along the glass all around and create new stars and shapes in the sky. He then looks up and notes me standing on the lapis floor with the other 3 Gods and tells me the answer I seek is reachable by "KOOM.2000". He gestures to a computer opened to Google at the other end of the hall and smiles.
I use Apollo, Ares and Hermes as an example in talking about getting someone else to help judge the proper recipient of something but I cant remember the words I use. Then I quote a line from a movie that represents this, and Zeus himself appears (I then remember discussing the other gods waking Zeus up to solve this problem. He says that I was the only one wise enough to see the chaos inherent in the discussion, and as he lights up the twinkie shaped gallery we are in he begins to trace a finger along the glass all around and create new stars and shapes in the sky. He then looks up and notes me standing on the lapis floor with the other 3 Gods and tells me the answer I seek is reachable by "KOOM.2000". He gestures to a computer opened to Google at the other end of the hall and smiles.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
O Time thy Pyramids
To gaze upon the spires and minarets
of a thousand far lost souks
To hear the azif of the sands at night
to speak of their many million mysteries
To see of the many naiads carousing among the waves
the shores of time immemorial
While it needs a remembrance
to be remembered by any but its custodians
But what seelie grace lies upon all the airs I have graced!
What rays of light catch so many massed lichens about!
What truth lies upon the hidden crags of the shore
As a thousand silent seas sit so quietly
And the deluge sounds,
Such might!
Ah, but beauteous and most perfect sin!
Lady of the dark waters!
Your estranged companion form,
Lord of the bright firmament!
To say "Ah, but I already know this."
And in doing promote the ignorance of so many ages
That fell proud rich Rome
And led old Aegypt to dismal decay
To seek the ruins of time,
And open the tomb itself.
The tomb of the Astronomer Kings,
The Wonders of all of our experiences
-Dedicated to Jorge Luis Borges
of a thousand far lost souks
To hear the azif of the sands at night
to speak of their many million mysteries
To see of the many naiads carousing among the waves
the shores of time immemorial
While it needs a remembrance
to be remembered by any but its custodians
But what seelie grace lies upon all the airs I have graced!
What rays of light catch so many massed lichens about!
What truth lies upon the hidden crags of the shore
As a thousand silent seas sit so quietly
And the deluge sounds,
Such might!
Ah, but beauteous and most perfect sin!
Lady of the dark waters!
Your estranged companion form,
Lord of the bright firmament!
To say "Ah, but I already know this."
And in doing promote the ignorance of so many ages
That fell proud rich Rome
And led old Aegypt to dismal decay
To seek the ruins of time,
And open the tomb itself.
The tomb of the Astronomer Kings,
The Wonders of all of our experiences
-Dedicated to Jorge Luis Borges
The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus, as written by I.
Ερμής ο Τρισμέγιστος - το σμαραγδένιο δισκίο
1. Αυτό ισχύει βεβαίως, και η αλήθεια σίγουρα ενώ επίσης είναι ψευδείς σίγουρα έτσι ψευδείς.
2. Ποια είναι τα παραπάνω είναι από τα κάτω και το είναι κάτω από τα παραπάνω. Το έργο του είναι θαύματα από τη μια και τα πάντα δεν έχει ακόμα τίποτα δεν.
3. Και όλα τα πράγματα που ξεπήδησε από αυτή την ουσία μέσω μιας ενιαίας προβολής. Πώς είναι θαυμάσιο έργο του! Πρόκειται για την αρχή μέρος του κόσμου και του θεματοφύλακα, ενώ πόσο θλιβερές είναι το έργο της, ότι από κάθε τι που ξεπήδησε πίσω από τίποτα δεν με πολλούς μια προβολή. Για να είναι όμως μια μικρή πτυχή του κόσμου του.
4. Ο πατέρας του είναι ο ήλιος και η μητέρα του είναι το φεγγάρι. Έτσι, ο άνεμος που έφερε μέσα σε αυτήν και η γη που τρέφονται.
5. Ο πατέρας του φυλακτά και κατόχου του θαύματα. Μητέρα των σκέψεων και διανομέας των musings.
6. Τέλεια στην εξουσία που αποκαλύπτει τα φώτα. Κάνετε λάθος στην αδυναμία που κρύβει το σκοτάδι. Τέλεια στην εξουσία που αποκαλύπτει το σκοτάδι. Κάνετε λάθος στην αδυναμία που κρύβει το φως.
7. Είναι μια φωτιά που έγινε γη μας. Χωριστή τη γη από την φωτιά και θα πρέπει να προσκολλάται πάνω σε αυτό που είναι λεπτή από εκείνο που είναι χονδροειδής, με φροντίδα και σοφία. Δεσμεύοντας την πυρκαγιά στη γη, και ας αγνοούν αλαζονεία επιμείνουν στα pedantial εγώ.
8. Είναι ανεβαίνει από τη γη στο ουρανό. Είναι αποσπάσματα τα φώτα από τα ύψη και κατεβαίνει προς τη γη που περιέχει η ισχύς των ανωτέρω και τα παρακάτω για να είναι με βάση τα φώτα. Κατά συνέπεια, το σκοτάδι φεύγει από αυτό.
Είναι κατεβαίνει από τον ουρανό στη γη. Είναι αποσπάσματα του σκιές από τα βάθη και ανεβαίνει στον ουρανό που περιέχουν τη δύναμη του κάτω και τα πάνω για να είναι με το σκοτάδι της σκοτάδι. Ως εκ τούτου το φως δραπετεύει από αυτό.
9. Η μεγαλύτερη δύναμη υπερνικά όλα όσα είναι λεπτή και αυτό διαπερνά όλα αυτά είναι χονδροειδής. Το λιγότερο ισχύς λήγει πριν από κάθε τι που είναι προφανές και διαπερνάται από όλους ότι είναι καθαρή.
10. Ο σχηματισμός του μικρόκοσμου είναι σύμφωνα με τη σύσταση του μακρόκοσμου. Όπως το αντίστροφο.
11. Οι μελετητές που αυτό το δρόμο τους. Οι πολεμιστές που αυτό δεν πορεία τους.
12. Για το λόγο αυτό τρεις φορές ο Ερμής ήταν υπερυψωμένα με τη σοφία και την παραφροσύνη.
13. Αυτό είναι το τελευταίο βιβλίο του, ότι κρύφτηκε στο κατακόμβη. Αυτό είναι το πρώτο βιβλίο του, ότι εμφανίζονται στο ναό του. Είναι η αρχή και το τέλος, το τέλος είναι η αρχή.
1. Αυτό ισχύει βεβαίως, και η αλήθεια σίγουρα ενώ επίσης είναι ψευδείς σίγουρα έτσι ψευδείς.
2. Ποια είναι τα παραπάνω είναι από τα κάτω και το είναι κάτω από τα παραπάνω. Το έργο του είναι θαύματα από τη μια και τα πάντα δεν έχει ακόμα τίποτα δεν.
3. Και όλα τα πράγματα που ξεπήδησε από αυτή την ουσία μέσω μιας ενιαίας προβολής. Πώς είναι θαυμάσιο έργο του! Πρόκειται για την αρχή μέρος του κόσμου και του θεματοφύλακα, ενώ πόσο θλιβερές είναι το έργο της, ότι από κάθε τι που ξεπήδησε πίσω από τίποτα δεν με πολλούς μια προβολή. Για να είναι όμως μια μικρή πτυχή του κόσμου του.
4. Ο πατέρας του είναι ο ήλιος και η μητέρα του είναι το φεγγάρι. Έτσι, ο άνεμος που έφερε μέσα σε αυτήν και η γη που τρέφονται.
5. Ο πατέρας του φυλακτά και κατόχου του θαύματα. Μητέρα των σκέψεων και διανομέας των musings.
6. Τέλεια στην εξουσία που αποκαλύπτει τα φώτα. Κάνετε λάθος στην αδυναμία που κρύβει το σκοτάδι. Τέλεια στην εξουσία που αποκαλύπτει το σκοτάδι. Κάνετε λάθος στην αδυναμία που κρύβει το φως.
7. Είναι μια φωτιά που έγινε γη μας. Χωριστή τη γη από την φωτιά και θα πρέπει να προσκολλάται πάνω σε αυτό που είναι λεπτή από εκείνο που είναι χονδροειδής, με φροντίδα και σοφία. Δεσμεύοντας την πυρκαγιά στη γη, και ας αγνοούν αλαζονεία επιμείνουν στα pedantial εγώ.
8. Είναι ανεβαίνει από τη γη στο ουρανό. Είναι αποσπάσματα τα φώτα από τα ύψη και κατεβαίνει προς τη γη που περιέχει η ισχύς των ανωτέρω και τα παρακάτω για να είναι με βάση τα φώτα. Κατά συνέπεια, το σκοτάδι φεύγει από αυτό.
Είναι κατεβαίνει από τον ουρανό στη γη. Είναι αποσπάσματα του σκιές από τα βάθη και ανεβαίνει στον ουρανό που περιέχουν τη δύναμη του κάτω και τα πάνω για να είναι με το σκοτάδι της σκοτάδι. Ως εκ τούτου το φως δραπετεύει από αυτό.
9. Η μεγαλύτερη δύναμη υπερνικά όλα όσα είναι λεπτή και αυτό διαπερνά όλα αυτά είναι χονδροειδής. Το λιγότερο ισχύς λήγει πριν από κάθε τι που είναι προφανές και διαπερνάται από όλους ότι είναι καθαρή.
10. Ο σχηματισμός του μικρόκοσμου είναι σύμφωνα με τη σύσταση του μακρόκοσμου. Όπως το αντίστροφο.
11. Οι μελετητές που αυτό το δρόμο τους. Οι πολεμιστές που αυτό δεν πορεία τους.
12. Για το λόγο αυτό τρεις φορές ο Ερμής ήταν υπερυψωμένα με τη σοφία και την παραφροσύνη.
13. Αυτό είναι το τελευταίο βιβλίο του, ότι κρύφτηκε στο κατακόμβη. Αυτό είναι το πρώτο βιβλίο του, ότι εμφανίζονται στο ναό του. Είναι η αρχή και το τέλος, το τέλος είναι η αρχή.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Isle of Arch
Ancient tales tell of an island off the coast of West Africa that was, at some point in time, home to a old Muslim hermit. Tales say that this nameless hermit was so pious in his devotions, so zealous in his faith, that the ruins that shared the island with him took on some measure of power.
These ruins are of unknown origin, leftovers from some forgotten progenitor race. Their dimensions are of a conglomerate of arches, tall arches, short ones, slender ones, bulky ones. All made of clay and a peculiar red stone. These arches covered the isle from side to side, for the isle was of mostly rock and sand, raised in the middle and lower on its slopes down towards the waters around. Tales say that the very rock of the isle shone bright in the midday sun, and the surrounding waters were clear as clear crystal, like a curtain of blue glass, made this way by the zeal and pious peace of the hermit.
Ages later, when explorers landed upon the isle, they found peculiar carvings in the arches denoting the virtues of a good man: Compassion, Peace, Piety, Zeal, Wisdom and so forth. It is said that those who ventured underneath the arches would become unto the virtue of that arch...for a time. The most legendary of the arches was the arch that was labeled FAITH.
The faithful that passed under this arch were given feelings of peace and theophany. The faithless however, disappeared utterly and without trace. It is said that the only way to truly instill faith in the faithless would be to show them firsthand the glories of Allah, and such they would be taken to look upon his holy form in Heaven.
Now, it is said by beggars in the cities of old that there existed an antithesis to the faith and piety that bespeckled the nameless hermits arches. As alaways in such thing, there existed an opposite to the virtuous arches, hidden underground beneath the isle, reachable by a tunnel only those lacking in virtue could perceive.
It is said that in the arches in this lightless realm of vaulted halls and caves there lay those emotions no pious man should desire to harbor: Anger, Suffering, Desire, Chaos, Evil.
Legendary among this dark realm was the arch of FAITHLESSNESS. It is said that the only way to break the faith of the faithful, the only way to instill an eternal hopelessness, would be lock away those with faith who passed under the arch. They would be locked away, it is said by less reputable beggars, in a magical prison of hopelessness and eternal despair.
These ruins are of unknown origin, leftovers from some forgotten progenitor race. Their dimensions are of a conglomerate of arches, tall arches, short ones, slender ones, bulky ones. All made of clay and a peculiar red stone. These arches covered the isle from side to side, for the isle was of mostly rock and sand, raised in the middle and lower on its slopes down towards the waters around. Tales say that the very rock of the isle shone bright in the midday sun, and the surrounding waters were clear as clear crystal, like a curtain of blue glass, made this way by the zeal and pious peace of the hermit.
Ages later, when explorers landed upon the isle, they found peculiar carvings in the arches denoting the virtues of a good man: Compassion, Peace, Piety, Zeal, Wisdom and so forth. It is said that those who ventured underneath the arches would become unto the virtue of that arch...for a time. The most legendary of the arches was the arch that was labeled FAITH.
The faithful that passed under this arch were given feelings of peace and theophany. The faithless however, disappeared utterly and without trace. It is said that the only way to truly instill faith in the faithless would be to show them firsthand the glories of Allah, and such they would be taken to look upon his holy form in Heaven.
Now, it is said by beggars in the cities of old that there existed an antithesis to the faith and piety that bespeckled the nameless hermits arches. As alaways in such thing, there existed an opposite to the virtuous arches, hidden underground beneath the isle, reachable by a tunnel only those lacking in virtue could perceive.
It is said that in the arches in this lightless realm of vaulted halls and caves there lay those emotions no pious man should desire to harbor: Anger, Suffering, Desire, Chaos, Evil.
Legendary among this dark realm was the arch of FAITHLESSNESS. It is said that the only way to break the faith of the faithful, the only way to instill an eternal hopelessness, would be lock away those with faith who passed under the arch. They would be locked away, it is said by less reputable beggars, in a magical prison of hopelessness and eternal despair.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Come, Darkness Triumphant!
-The following account was discovered at the bottom of an inkpot in the recently uncovered cellars below the Scivener's Hall in the Arabian city of Irem. Formally known as Irem of the Thousand Pillars, the city vanished into the Saharan sands without a trace. Carbon dating places the scroll, which was sealed in a thick coating of wax and unidentified blood, at a date approx. Around 2400 B.C.
The account, while somewhat difficult of a piece to translate, is written very precisely in a well known dialect not common to the general Ubar region in which Irem is found. The following is the excerpt of the account I thought you would find an interest in.
From the Accounts of Aram Al-Azif, Personal Scribe of Vizier Jakkam
Day 249 of the 15th Year of Sultan's Rule:
In the past I have found these writings to be efficient ways of relieving the stress brought on by dealing with the incompetant fools in Sultan's palace. The matter of stress is no different now, yet it's source has somewhat changed. As I have found before, it pays to lay out even the most inauspicious detail of my actions and experiences for later perusal, lest some point of knowledge and importance be omitted. This is one of the reasons I am Personal Scribe to Sultan's Vizier.
On that note I shall start somewhat hurriedly on the beginning of my day today, even though it be a trivial thing. I was absorbed in my work in Sultan's Palatial grounds, sitting aside from the innumerable other scribes who were busy with who knows what, when one of the fools approaches me. He fails to notice my busied transliteration of a earlier text to modern tongues, and thrusts a thick, yellowing tome of curious design before my eyes.
"I need help Aram! This book has shown me why my neighbor acts so strangely!" He exclaimed. His name eluded me.
I batted an eye briefly upwards, noting with disdain the tome he carried to be some drivel on the Undead and, specifically, the signs and habits of the man-eating Ghul of the deep desert. Clearly he had been out in the sun for too long.
I stroked my goatee thoughtfully as I decided what I would have for lunch.
"What is your name, sirrah?", I asked him.
He began to answer but I shushed him with a wave.
"It has no matter. What matters here is that you thought to come to me with this fantasy, while I am clearly very busy with my work." I gave him a withering stare.
"I am sorry Agha-Azif, I was just so-"
"Ah. Not to worry, I will study the matter fully and advise a course of action. You just leave it to me." The fool ate it up.
"Thank you Agha-Azif! Thank you! I fear for my life almost every day!"
"Yes, very well, now please leave me to my work."
Look into it indeed. The only thing I would be looking into soon was a good kabob, and I sealed the matter by leaving that book on a stool in my quarters. Foolish drivel serves only to distract the mind from more awesome matters of knowledge.
Thusly, I left the grounds later that day, my transliterations almost complete for the Vizier's objectives, to pursue one of Irem's many famous kabob houses. The smell was intoxicating.
Yet something caught my eye that night in the market, something strange and pallid aside from the dust that covered the city, the streets, my scholarly white robes. A strange figure, slim and feminine, walked through the throngs in the sectors where I made my culinary rounds.
She would wait for times at certain pillars, pale and still in the sun-burnt landscape of Irem. I absolved to follow her but for a time, the thought of the kabob temporarily vanquished. I know not what I thought as I traced her steps to the seedier sections of the sprawling city. I was never married to another, as such things are forbidden to men of the scrolls, yet neither was I of the rank of eunuch.
She disappeared abruptly, slipping quietly into a small structure of ireedeemable disrepair. I followed her silently, looking about in the gathering dusk as I gently eased the door open. It was curious, to follow a woman to such a place. It is not my business, yet I could not help myself. The innards of the place were of old design, like some closed down inn or tavern. The woman had gone down to the cellar it seemed, and I was unsure if I should follow. A strange smell infused the air. A smell of rot and decay. Obviously this was an unclean place of mold.
She could be a protitute, yet I had a feeling that that was an incorrect assumption. I absolved to wait for her return and quietly, knowing how to move silently from a dozen years in the silent libraries of his Majesty, set myself down behind a rather large jug of liquor or some other type of beverage. The smell was more sweet near it, and what little light coming in from the holes in the ceiling illuminated far from my spot. I set myself down to wait.
I remember a spell of silence then, as several pairs of feet trod out from the cellar, and I found myself witness to something bizarre and strange. They all wore cloaks of dark threat, and had apparently brought up from the cellar an altar of stone. On the altar lay that woman of pale beauty, naked and shivering in the cold of night, black tresses flowing down from the stone.
Words were exchanged, and my curiousity and dread grew as I witnessed a passing and mutual drinking of a vessel of clay which contained a dark liquid. My fears conjured an ironic memory of that fool scribes fears on the subject of the supernatural Ghul, and I almost cried out in terror.
Yet I am made of sterner stuff, and I watched with a writers eye as they all bowed deeply to the woman. I was unsure if this was anything more than a rich womans fantasy or a small pleasure cult of one of those northern deities.
My thoughts were broken as the woman began convulsing, yet I know not if it was in ecstasy or pain or fear. One of the four or so figures raised up a knife of gold then, carved with a line of text I could not make out. He brought the knife down as they all, sans the woman, whispered a quick phrase. A slicing sound was heard, and he stepped back to allow me to see, with the fading sun's rays catching the last areas of the house, a river of crimson flowing forth from the sighing females form. The man had cut her arm, and she bled as the other figures bowed deeply whilst eagerly moving back and forth on the floor. I heard the sounds of slurping and licking, and the images of the Ghul in that fool scribes book came back to haunt me.
I was stunned. Numb in mind and body, I could barely process the scene before me. I believe I passed out in horror.
I awoke with a start. Noting it to be deep night. All was silent. I peered around the jug with dread, and noted a form laid in the stiffness of death on the altar. I appraoched it after noticing that the room was for the most part empty once more. The body was pale and empty of fluid. I dared not touch it. Yet, the knife lay on top of her breasts, almost alluringly, and I deigned to touch that. I picked it gingerly off of her chest, hefting it and noticing the writing on the blade. I could not make it out very well, and so I looked about for some brighter light from Sin (Translators Note: Sin was the pre-Islamic God of the Moon).
I brought it up to the light shining down from the hole in the ceiling, and I wonder now what I was thinking, to follow that woman, to be here. Perhaps life had gotten to droll. Too ordered and boring.
I studied the carving, deciding to steal the knife for further study after a quiet escape. Yet as I shifted my grip on the pommel, a sharp barb built into its design pricked me deeply. I gasped with pain and surprise, dropping the knife with a thud to the planked floor. The silence had been eerily shattered.
I stood still, hoping not to have aroused the cloaked figures which were surely asleep below. I could probably talk my way out of any theft by way of calling the guard on the corpse before me, whom I could claim to have spied from the street. Yet the sound I was expecting came not from the stairs nearby but from the pallid corpse on the altar. A rustling, raspy sound echoed forth from her dead throat, culling the rest of my courage. The word Ghul and the scared fool scribes face drowned in my mind.
I ran then, fleeing into the night through a window, as I found the door to be locked rather well. I noted with panting breath that it was not as late as I had earlier surmised, and decided to pursue the topic of the kabob once, again, perhaps to cool my nerves and mull over the topic of the murdered woman. Cult or no cult, that is a death sentence in Irem.
The item was rather juicy, lain out lengthwise on a dowel of wood for my enjoyment. Pepper and pork, stemming straight from the wealth-inducing trade we make with our neighbors, delicious. Yet, the meat and pepper would not go down, and I began to choke in my seat rather violently. I supposed the items to be tainted in some way, and made a formal complaint to the acting manager. Rather troubled, I continued along my way back to my apartments near the Palace.
Yet along the way a thirst struck me unlike any I had ever felt before, and as I looked about for a water vendor I began to hear a rhythm. It was a curious, all prevailing sound, and as I put my ear to the ground I could still hear it with the same intensity. As a couple walked past me the sound grew in intensity, and it dawned on me that I heard the beating of the many hearts of the city, alive and fresh and pure.
My mind was foggy and estranged from its normal feeling. I recalled once more that poor scribes face, and the words he spoke I heard once again. The kabob did not work to sate my hunger, would water slake my thirst?
I was a man of logic and pattern, yet I was learned enough to know when a man needs a physician. I started off in the direction of my house first to get some rest.
I never got even halfway. I doubled over in the pain. The heartbeats grew louder and louder and the thrist grew higher and higher. Logic! Reason! Order!
These were the watchwords of the scribe. Attention to details. The barb. The knife. The blood. Oh, the blood!
I understood my dread condition, yet my pacifistic nature overruled the realization of what I may have to do. Why me, why does misfortune befall the Vizier's scribe!
The body was found the next day by the guard, exsanguinated in an alleyway near the kabob house. My thirst was put to rest. Like those figures in the house, I used a weapon for the deed, falling away from the tradition of the flesh eating Ghul's. I could not bring myself to actually bite the flesh of the man I had killed. The knife entered his neck too easily to be real. He must have been an illusion in this horrid nightmare of phantasms. I must still be asleep in my study, yet I am not waking up.
And now I face the thought of how long will I live with this new addition to my life's account. I must do more research. I fear discovery. It is akin to a secret and taboo hobby. Shall I go to those figures in the house? Shall I turn myself over to the executioners block? Shall I wither and die of thirst among the wet ink of a thousand blackened and bloody tomes?!
Perhaps not. But why did I follow that enchanted, doomed woman, that dread mask for what would come! Why did I have to inspect the weapon, why must the scribe's curiosity overtake his conscious fear? I do not know. All is darkness, and I in the darkness I am alone, and the words on the page grow blurry, and I thirst once more for a palate that is dreadful to think on, but needed forevermore.
"I am the Dabbat Al-Ard! Beast of the Earth!
المؤمنين سوف يتدفق لي وأنا ما تتغذى على الدجال الأبد! أنا الموت.
And in peaceful solace shall I find nothingness, as the water of life should grace mine lips at last. So come, darkness triumphant!
-Anonymous
(Translators Note: The preceeding quote is dated to have been written approx. 200 years after the original account.)
The account, while somewhat difficult of a piece to translate, is written very precisely in a well known dialect not common to the general Ubar region in which Irem is found. The following is the excerpt of the account I thought you would find an interest in.
From the Accounts of Aram Al-Azif, Personal Scribe of Vizier Jakkam
Day 249 of the 15th Year of Sultan's Rule:
In the past I have found these writings to be efficient ways of relieving the stress brought on by dealing with the incompetant fools in Sultan's palace. The matter of stress is no different now, yet it's source has somewhat changed. As I have found before, it pays to lay out even the most inauspicious detail of my actions and experiences for later perusal, lest some point of knowledge and importance be omitted. This is one of the reasons I am Personal Scribe to Sultan's Vizier.
On that note I shall start somewhat hurriedly on the beginning of my day today, even though it be a trivial thing. I was absorbed in my work in Sultan's Palatial grounds, sitting aside from the innumerable other scribes who were busy with who knows what, when one of the fools approaches me. He fails to notice my busied transliteration of a earlier text to modern tongues, and thrusts a thick, yellowing tome of curious design before my eyes.
"I need help Aram! This book has shown me why my neighbor acts so strangely!" He exclaimed. His name eluded me.
I batted an eye briefly upwards, noting with disdain the tome he carried to be some drivel on the Undead and, specifically, the signs and habits of the man-eating Ghul of the deep desert. Clearly he had been out in the sun for too long.
I stroked my goatee thoughtfully as I decided what I would have for lunch.
"What is your name, sirrah?", I asked him.
He began to answer but I shushed him with a wave.
"It has no matter. What matters here is that you thought to come to me with this fantasy, while I am clearly very busy with my work." I gave him a withering stare.
"I am sorry Agha-Azif, I was just so-"
"Ah. Not to worry, I will study the matter fully and advise a course of action. You just leave it to me." The fool ate it up.
"Thank you Agha-Azif! Thank you! I fear for my life almost every day!"
"Yes, very well, now please leave me to my work."
Look into it indeed. The only thing I would be looking into soon was a good kabob, and I sealed the matter by leaving that book on a stool in my quarters. Foolish drivel serves only to distract the mind from more awesome matters of knowledge.
Thusly, I left the grounds later that day, my transliterations almost complete for the Vizier's objectives, to pursue one of Irem's many famous kabob houses. The smell was intoxicating.
Yet something caught my eye that night in the market, something strange and pallid aside from the dust that covered the city, the streets, my scholarly white robes. A strange figure, slim and feminine, walked through the throngs in the sectors where I made my culinary rounds.
She would wait for times at certain pillars, pale and still in the sun-burnt landscape of Irem. I absolved to follow her but for a time, the thought of the kabob temporarily vanquished. I know not what I thought as I traced her steps to the seedier sections of the sprawling city. I was never married to another, as such things are forbidden to men of the scrolls, yet neither was I of the rank of eunuch.
She disappeared abruptly, slipping quietly into a small structure of ireedeemable disrepair. I followed her silently, looking about in the gathering dusk as I gently eased the door open. It was curious, to follow a woman to such a place. It is not my business, yet I could not help myself. The innards of the place were of old design, like some closed down inn or tavern. The woman had gone down to the cellar it seemed, and I was unsure if I should follow. A strange smell infused the air. A smell of rot and decay. Obviously this was an unclean place of mold.
She could be a protitute, yet I had a feeling that that was an incorrect assumption. I absolved to wait for her return and quietly, knowing how to move silently from a dozen years in the silent libraries of his Majesty, set myself down behind a rather large jug of liquor or some other type of beverage. The smell was more sweet near it, and what little light coming in from the holes in the ceiling illuminated far from my spot. I set myself down to wait.
I remember a spell of silence then, as several pairs of feet trod out from the cellar, and I found myself witness to something bizarre and strange. They all wore cloaks of dark threat, and had apparently brought up from the cellar an altar of stone. On the altar lay that woman of pale beauty, naked and shivering in the cold of night, black tresses flowing down from the stone.
Words were exchanged, and my curiousity and dread grew as I witnessed a passing and mutual drinking of a vessel of clay which contained a dark liquid. My fears conjured an ironic memory of that fool scribes fears on the subject of the supernatural Ghul, and I almost cried out in terror.
Yet I am made of sterner stuff, and I watched with a writers eye as they all bowed deeply to the woman. I was unsure if this was anything more than a rich womans fantasy or a small pleasure cult of one of those northern deities.
My thoughts were broken as the woman began convulsing, yet I know not if it was in ecstasy or pain or fear. One of the four or so figures raised up a knife of gold then, carved with a line of text I could not make out. He brought the knife down as they all, sans the woman, whispered a quick phrase. A slicing sound was heard, and he stepped back to allow me to see, with the fading sun's rays catching the last areas of the house, a river of crimson flowing forth from the sighing females form. The man had cut her arm, and she bled as the other figures bowed deeply whilst eagerly moving back and forth on the floor. I heard the sounds of slurping and licking, and the images of the Ghul in that fool scribes book came back to haunt me.
I was stunned. Numb in mind and body, I could barely process the scene before me. I believe I passed out in horror.
I awoke with a start. Noting it to be deep night. All was silent. I peered around the jug with dread, and noted a form laid in the stiffness of death on the altar. I appraoched it after noticing that the room was for the most part empty once more. The body was pale and empty of fluid. I dared not touch it. Yet, the knife lay on top of her breasts, almost alluringly, and I deigned to touch that. I picked it gingerly off of her chest, hefting it and noticing the writing on the blade. I could not make it out very well, and so I looked about for some brighter light from Sin (Translators Note: Sin was the pre-Islamic God of the Moon).
I brought it up to the light shining down from the hole in the ceiling, and I wonder now what I was thinking, to follow that woman, to be here. Perhaps life had gotten to droll. Too ordered and boring.
I studied the carving, deciding to steal the knife for further study after a quiet escape. Yet as I shifted my grip on the pommel, a sharp barb built into its design pricked me deeply. I gasped with pain and surprise, dropping the knife with a thud to the planked floor. The silence had been eerily shattered.
I stood still, hoping not to have aroused the cloaked figures which were surely asleep below. I could probably talk my way out of any theft by way of calling the guard on the corpse before me, whom I could claim to have spied from the street. Yet the sound I was expecting came not from the stairs nearby but from the pallid corpse on the altar. A rustling, raspy sound echoed forth from her dead throat, culling the rest of my courage. The word Ghul and the scared fool scribes face drowned in my mind.
I ran then, fleeing into the night through a window, as I found the door to be locked rather well. I noted with panting breath that it was not as late as I had earlier surmised, and decided to pursue the topic of the kabob once, again, perhaps to cool my nerves and mull over the topic of the murdered woman. Cult or no cult, that is a death sentence in Irem.
The item was rather juicy, lain out lengthwise on a dowel of wood for my enjoyment. Pepper and pork, stemming straight from the wealth-inducing trade we make with our neighbors, delicious. Yet, the meat and pepper would not go down, and I began to choke in my seat rather violently. I supposed the items to be tainted in some way, and made a formal complaint to the acting manager. Rather troubled, I continued along my way back to my apartments near the Palace.
Yet along the way a thirst struck me unlike any I had ever felt before, and as I looked about for a water vendor I began to hear a rhythm. It was a curious, all prevailing sound, and as I put my ear to the ground I could still hear it with the same intensity. As a couple walked past me the sound grew in intensity, and it dawned on me that I heard the beating of the many hearts of the city, alive and fresh and pure.
My mind was foggy and estranged from its normal feeling. I recalled once more that poor scribes face, and the words he spoke I heard once again. The kabob did not work to sate my hunger, would water slake my thirst?
I was a man of logic and pattern, yet I was learned enough to know when a man needs a physician. I started off in the direction of my house first to get some rest.
I never got even halfway. I doubled over in the pain. The heartbeats grew louder and louder and the thrist grew higher and higher. Logic! Reason! Order!
These were the watchwords of the scribe. Attention to details. The barb. The knife. The blood. Oh, the blood!
I understood my dread condition, yet my pacifistic nature overruled the realization of what I may have to do. Why me, why does misfortune befall the Vizier's scribe!
The body was found the next day by the guard, exsanguinated in an alleyway near the kabob house. My thirst was put to rest. Like those figures in the house, I used a weapon for the deed, falling away from the tradition of the flesh eating Ghul's. I could not bring myself to actually bite the flesh of the man I had killed. The knife entered his neck too easily to be real. He must have been an illusion in this horrid nightmare of phantasms. I must still be asleep in my study, yet I am not waking up.
And now I face the thought of how long will I live with this new addition to my life's account. I must do more research. I fear discovery. It is akin to a secret and taboo hobby. Shall I go to those figures in the house? Shall I turn myself over to the executioners block? Shall I wither and die of thirst among the wet ink of a thousand blackened and bloody tomes?!
Perhaps not. But why did I follow that enchanted, doomed woman, that dread mask for what would come! Why did I have to inspect the weapon, why must the scribe's curiosity overtake his conscious fear? I do not know. All is darkness, and I in the darkness I am alone, and the words on the page grow blurry, and I thirst once more for a palate that is dreadful to think on, but needed forevermore.
"I am the Dabbat Al-Ard! Beast of the Earth!
المؤمنين سوف يتدفق لي وأنا ما تتغذى على الدجال الأبد! أنا الموت.
And in peaceful solace shall I find nothingness, as the water of life should grace mine lips at last. So come, darkness triumphant!
-Anonymous
(Translators Note: The preceeding quote is dated to have been written approx. 200 years after the original account.)
Another Dream
I awaken on a cold stone floor, scattering poker chips all around. The room is dark but for a torch upside down set into the ceiling's center. I hear a voice saying "Do not suffer the fool to live", and I notice an open door nearby. The door leads to a long hallway, and at the end is a statue of onyx and crystal depicting Zeus on a throne. There is a flash of light and I awaken.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
More Dreams
I am having recurring dreams of late of which I remember nothing but a single word: Uskul. The dream usually also contains the sound of lapping water.
~
I am a customer in a Babylonian tavern known as "Azif's Hundred Ale Holes", a restaurant with suggestive names of menu items such as a "Nutty Handjob" which is actually roasted chestnuts with sugar. A spiral staircase leads down into the earth with the monotonous whine of flutes in the distance. Every 100 feet down there is a simple wooden door with an Inn or Tavern of some sort on the other side. Notable taverns are "Potigerns Boar Ring", a gladiatorial combat ring run by darkiron intelligent golems, "Azal's Place", a simple temple to Mithra with a nearby weapons shop, and "The Slum Bucket", a watering hole for beggars who are lost. Not every door leads to a tavern, and some lead to blank walls or empty rooms guarded by a Guard as the previous owner could not pay Azif's rent. At the very bottom of the shaft, which is 10,000 feet long, there is a golden archway leading into the bottomost taverm. Known as "Lightbringers Challenge", this lavish tavern is decorated with the architecture of Egypt at the height of its power. Dancers, Sphinx's giving riddles, Jackals selling books and Priest's performing magic adorn the place, where it is said somewhere Azif himself lairs.
~
I am looking at several pencil sketches I remember drawing before, the setting is a street corner in a pre-Crusade city in Arabia. There are several men half hidden in the darkness beyond an arch across the deserted alley across from me, of which I have already pencilled a sketch. Suddenly, I begin packing my tools of art as a line of black robed men begin disrobing in the middle of the alley some way down. They then walk off in thin robes of white, each holding the others shoulders in single file. I am busy packing and when I finally start towards where they were headed they have disappeared in the heat of the far white dunes. I estimate them to be about 15-20 in number. All tanned and dressed in simple white. They wore no footwear.
I remember the heat being all but unbearable and the city very quiet but distantly noisy.
~
I am a customer in a Babylonian tavern known as "Azif's Hundred Ale Holes", a restaurant with suggestive names of menu items such as a "Nutty Handjob" which is actually roasted chestnuts with sugar. A spiral staircase leads down into the earth with the monotonous whine of flutes in the distance. Every 100 feet down there is a simple wooden door with an Inn or Tavern of some sort on the other side. Notable taverns are "Potigerns Boar Ring", a gladiatorial combat ring run by darkiron intelligent golems, "Azal's Place", a simple temple to Mithra with a nearby weapons shop, and "The Slum Bucket", a watering hole for beggars who are lost. Not every door leads to a tavern, and some lead to blank walls or empty rooms guarded by a Guard as the previous owner could not pay Azif's rent. At the very bottom of the shaft, which is 10,000 feet long, there is a golden archway leading into the bottomost taverm. Known as "Lightbringers Challenge", this lavish tavern is decorated with the architecture of Egypt at the height of its power. Dancers, Sphinx's giving riddles, Jackals selling books and Priest's performing magic adorn the place, where it is said somewhere Azif himself lairs.
~
I am looking at several pencil sketches I remember drawing before, the setting is a street corner in a pre-Crusade city in Arabia. There are several men half hidden in the darkness beyond an arch across the deserted alley across from me, of which I have already pencilled a sketch. Suddenly, I begin packing my tools of art as a line of black robed men begin disrobing in the middle of the alley some way down. They then walk off in thin robes of white, each holding the others shoulders in single file. I am busy packing and when I finally start towards where they were headed they have disappeared in the heat of the far white dunes. I estimate them to be about 15-20 in number. All tanned and dressed in simple white. They wore no footwear.
I remember the heat being all but unbearable and the city very quiet but distantly noisy.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Stream of Consciousness Experiement
Estimated Time of Writing: 2 minutes
a blue shining shinto shrine streams of wite theres black coral rocks + limitless infiniti eterniti of mind death is absent cyan liquid fog all around as one sees white light in the gate, and ritual bands inter-twining the gate a man is absent because there is nothing no infiniti of paradisical stories, no poetry, no letters, the ink has been diluted with moisture from the watery depths below.
a blue shining shinto shrine streams of wite theres black coral rocks + limitless infiniti eterniti of mind death is absent cyan liquid fog all around as one sees white light in the gate, and ritual bands inter-twining the gate a man is absent because there is nothing no infiniti of paradisical stories, no poetry, no letters, the ink has been diluted with moisture from the watery depths below.
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