Random Stories and Fragments

i posted this story in the nes i'm in, but i feel its random enough to merit a spot here. plus, i've been wanting to try my hand at this for awhile now, so here goes nothing:

Spoiler :
Madoc wandered the wastes of the world searching for the golden path. In his travels he came across a village in the Valley of the Pure. The people of the town greeted him. They welcomed him into their homes with great hospitality. Madoc was overwhelmed with their kindness, and decided to stay.

Within one cycle of the full moon he burnt the village to the ground, slaying all but three of the villagers. The first was a dwarven merchant, who had grown rich peddling his falsely precious jewels. The second was a beautiful young woman, and the fairest of all in the village. All of the men greatly desired her, and she played upon their desires for her own gain. The third was an old crone, who was shunned by every other person who had lived in the village.

Madoc pointed the Tainted Sword at each them and asked “Why should I let you live?” The dwarf spoke first, “I have great riches. I have hidden them in the forest, so they have not been buried beneath the rubble of my burnt home. I will
take you to it and all my life’s work can be yours.”

Madoc spoke, “The riches of the earth are meaningless. Blessed is he who forsakes all of the precious things of the world, for the trinkets of Kilmorph will not fulfil her empty promises.” Madoc slew the dwarf. He then turned to the fairest young woman of the village and asked, “Why should I let you live?”

The beautiful young woman replied, “I am the most beautiful woman of the village. Spare me and I shall be yours. I will give you children. They will love you for the rest of your days and more. Spare me and I shall love you ‘til my dying breath.”

Madoc spoke, “Love is fleeting; hollow without meaning. Blessed is he who forsakes the pleasures of Amatheon. To create life is to waste life. Fair lady, you may love me now. For it will be until your dying breath,” and Madoc slew the young woman. He then pointed the Tainted Sword at the old crone. Madoc put forth to her the same question, “Why should I let you live?”

The old crone, weary from carrying the burden of her long life replied, “If I do not die today then I will die tomorrow, for the only purpose of all things that live is to die. Blessed is he who seeks to serve his purpose, for the great goddess will give unto him oblivion: most high of all rewards.” Madoc sheathed his sword, then continued his search for the golden path.

- The Black Book of Ceridwen
 
kenkrajen said:
i posted this story in the nes i'm in, but i feel its random enough to merit a spot here. plus, i've been wanting to try my hand at this for awhile now, so here goes nothing:

Spoiler :
Madoc wandered the wastes of the world searching for the golden path. In his travels he came across a village in the Valley of the Pure. The people of the town greeted him. They welcomed him into their homes with great hospitality. Madoc was overwhelmed with their kindness, and decided to stay.

Within one cycle of the full moon he burnt the village to the ground, slaying all but three of the villagers. The first was a dwarven merchant, who had grown rich peddling his falsely precious jewels. The second was a beautiful young woman, and the fairest of all in the village. All of the men greatly desired her, and she played upon their desires for her own gain. The third was an old crone, who was shunned by every other person who had lived in the village.

Madoc pointed the Tainted Sword at each them and asked “Why should I let you live?” The dwarf spoke first, “I have great riches. I have hidden them in the forest, so they have not been buried beneath the rubble of my burnt home. I will
take you to it and all my life’s work can be yours.”

Madoc spoke, “The riches of the earth are meaningless. Blessed is he who forsakes all of the precious things of the world, for the trinkets of Kilmorph will not fulfil her empty promises.” Madoc slew the dwarf. He then turned to the fairest young woman of the village and asked, “Why should I let you live?”

The beautiful young woman replied, “I am the most beautiful woman of the village. Spare me and I shall be yours. I will give you children. They will love you for the rest of your days and more. Spare me and I shall love you ‘til my dying breath.”

Madoc spoke, “Love is fleeting; hollow without meaning. Blessed is he who forsakes the pleasures of Amatheon. To create life is to waste life. Fair lady, you may love me now. For it will be until your dying breath,” and Madoc slew the young woman. He then pointed the Tainted Sword at the old crone. Madoc put forth to her the same question, “Why should I let you live?”

The old crone, weary from carrying the burden of her long life replied, “If I do not die today then I will die tomorrow, for the only purpose of all things that live is to die. Blessed is he who seeks to serve his purpose, for the great goddess will give unto him oblivion: most high of all rewards.” Madoc sheathed his sword, then continued his search for the golden path.

- The Black Book of Ceridwen
Click to expand...

*Scribbles above down for use in his own Sheaim NES.* Nice.
 
@Killer clowns: Are you going to make a nes, or are you already playing it?
 
Uh-oh. Don't give KC any more good ideas in that game, or I'll be in trouble if I ever run into his Sheaim...

EDIT: Read the stuff on Laroth - very nice, KC! Perhaps you could send Thomas.Berubeg a link, I believe he wanted to use Laroth in his Age Of Despair project.
 
Dang Diamond eyes, when you said that, I was like "Wait, Kael wouldn't play a NES game, would he?
 
Well, he'd definitely be welcome to :lol:. I don't think he'd be interested though unfortunately.
 
For KillerClowns,

The Cult of Temeluchus

Spoiler :
“The priests of Sirona tell you to show compassion, to give to those that are suffering. But Temeluchus requires more devotion than that. We cannot appease our guilt by dropping a few coins into a beggar’s cup and then return to our own lavish homes. To truly share the burden we must suffer as the least among us. We must become as poor as the beggar, as weak as the sick, and as helpless as our own prisoners.

How can you fear suffering when there are those just outside your door that do it every day? It is better for you to bleed with them than to live above them!”

The crowd cheered. They were a mix of voluntary poor and the normal Patrian lower class, those that had attended before and those hearing the message for the first time. Some of the devout began to break open rough sores along their arms, allowing their blood to flow down onto their hands. Most had done it so many times that their forearms were stained brown.

Laroth was still disgusted by that part of the religion, but compared to the trials of physical pain giving a few more gold coins seems a small loss. The man who isn’t willing to sacrifice his blood gives more gold in guilty compensation, and the man willing to destroy his own flesh will give everything he owns without thought.

As they had many times before the crowd quickly filled Laroth’s donation plates. Laroth stayed after, talking to the fanatical that regaled him with increasingly horrific stories of their own self-mutilation. Laroth made no comment to his own suffering, though most supposed it was great and they enviously eyed the dark stains that slipped from his robe and covered up both of his hands. Though they had no idea it was only the stains from a daily wash of beet juice. There was no reason to make sacrifices to a god Laroth made up himself.

When the crowd was finally gone there were only two left in the small shrine to Temeluchus, a man in a deep green cloak, and an odd boy sitting beside him who wore a pumpkin colored shirt. The boy was thin, awkward and unwilling to meet Laroth’s gaze when he looked at him. The man was powerfully built, and his clothes were richly detailed. Laroth was surprised he didn’t notice him during the sermon, as he had a talent for noticing wealthy listeners, though Laroth sensed a greater power in him than just his wealth.

The richly appointed man lowered the hood of his cloak to reveal his face. It was an easy one to recognize as it was on statues all across Patria. It was the Patrian king, Kylorin.

“My king,” Laroth stammered “I am honored that you would grace this small temple of Temeluchus.”

“The honor is mine, you are a powerful speaker and I found your sermon inspirational.” He answered. Then after a pause he added, “Wasn’t this a shrine to Arawn a few weeks ago?”

Laroth pretended to think as Kylorin rose and walked up to the front. The boy followed in his shadow.

“Yes, I believe it was. Though why the fine citizens of Patria would want to throw gold into graves is beyond me. I think the priest was just keeping the donations for himself.”

“Indeed.” Kylorin said with a smile.

Laroth suddenly remembered he was talking to the king and added a quick, “yes, I mean, of course your majesty.” And then gave a slight bow.

The boy scoffed, rolling his eyes at the genuflecting preacher.

Laroth raised his head to smile at the boy, that smile that had won over so many. Laroth wasn’t an attractive man, he was spindly and bookish even in his late twenties. But men and women alike couldn’t help but feel calm and comforted by his presence.

But that was not how the boy reacted. The boy became enraged and leapt at Laroth. Laroth was so surprised that stepped back and tripped over the short railing around the altar sending both of them tumbling down in a clumsy pile of knees and elbows.

“You’re a donkey, you’re a donkey,” the boy yelled irrationally.

In the confusion those words were all that Laroth could hear, feel or see. The world melted away until that was the only concept left in it. Laroth brayed loudly at the attacking boy, then rolling over onto all fours he began kicking wildly. His second kick caught the boy in the stomach and knocked him back over the railing where Kylorin caught him.

“Henri! Stop it!” the king yelled.

The delusion of being a donkey disappeared and Laroth found himself hunched on all fours by the altar. He hadn’t been physically changed, but for those few seconds he truly believed he was a donkey. Embarrassed he picked himself up.

“That boy, he did something to me!” Laroth said.

Henri smiled, though his ribs still hurt he really enjoyed the sight of the braying and bucking preacher.

“Perhaps,” Kylorin said. “Though it could be said that you attacked him first.”

Laroth didn’t comment.

Kylorin continued, “You convert a lot of people to your god. Many disciples go out and try to spread the message you have given them. They repeat your sermons but few convert to them. And after you leave a town the faithful always drift off and forget your message. Men so devoted that some punish themselves to the point of death gradually turn back to normal lives. Have you ever wondered why?”

Laroth winced when Kylorin mentioned the deaths. It was unfortunate that some took the message to far. Especially those that were closest to him, the longer he stayed in one area the more likely the fanatical deaths were. That was why he moved from city to city every few months.

“I assume that I am blessed by Temeluchus. That I am the one he has chosen to spread his message.”

The boy scoffed again. Kylorin had stopped smiling.

“That cannot be,” Kylorin said, “because Temeluchus isn’t real. You made him up. So then why do people so eagerly convert to your message, and ignore it from others?”

“Temeluchus is a great god, during the godswar he…” Laroth started, ready to defend his god as he did many times to visiting priests and fanatics of other religions.

Kylorin interrupted, “Your son, didn’t he serve as an acolyte in your services?”

Laroth felt his passionate defense melt away, he only nodded to the question.

“He was young,” Kylorin said “11 or 12 years old. You were training him in your craft, teaching him to evangelize as you do. You had even told him the truth, that there was no Temeluchus, so that he wouldn’t be in danger. What happened to his mother?”

Laroth looked at the ground, unwilling to meet the kings eyes. “She was one of my first converts, I was really little more than a boy myself at the time. She died in worship to Temeluchus.”

“So you raised your son on your own until he was old enough to work for you. He must have heard hundreds of sermons. But you thought that if he knew the truth, he would be safe. But even though you told him the truth, even though he saw you pocket the donations every night, even though he listened to you laugh at the gullible worshippers that came to your sermons, he still believed. And in secret he was worshipping Temeluchus. But you didn’t know until you found him dead.”

Laroth broke down, dropping his head into his hands he sobbed and his sorrow flooded out of him, through the shrine and out into the city. Henri was also overcome and started crying as did many within blocks of the temple.

Kylorin braced himself. He was guarded from the energy Laroth was radiating but even he hadn’t expected how unintentionally powerful the preacher was. Kylorin knew Laroth had an amazing talent for spirit magic, that he would make a powerful archmage, but he hadn’t expected it to flow so easily from the bookish preacher. Even through Kylorin’s protections he felt the grip of his own sadness, though he quickly pushed it away.

Kylorin placed a hand on Henri’s shoulder, breaking the spell and the boy recovered from his sobs. Though angry, Henri was too exhausted by the flood of emotion and simply sat down in the front pew.

In a few minutes Laroth regained his composure.

“Why did you keep preaching after your son’s death?” Kylorin asked, unwilling to let the painful subject go.

“I stopped for a while,” Laroth answered, wiping off his face with the sleeve of his robe. “But I’m not suited to be a farmer or cobbler. It’s really all I do well. What else do I have to lose?”

Kylorin and Laroth talked for the rest of the night. Kylorin explained magic, explained Laroth’s power and offered him the opportunity to learn to control it. By morning the shrine was empty, though it would quickly be adopted by some random cult or religion, the worship of Temeluchus was over.
 
Kael said:
For KillerClowns,

The Cult of Temeluchus

Spoiler :
“The priests of Sirona tell you to show compassion, to give to those that are suffering. But Temeluchus requires more devotion than that. We cannot appease our guilt by dropping a few coins into a beggar’s cup and then return to our own lavish homes. To truly share the burden we must suffer as the least among us. We must become as poor as the beggar, as weak as the sick, and as helpless as our own prisoners.

How can you fear suffering when there are those just outside your door that do it every day? It is better for you to bleed with them than to live above them!”

The crowd cheered. They were a mix of voluntary poor and the normal Patrian lower class, those that had attended before and those hearing the message for the first time. Some of the devout began to break open rough sores along their arms, allowing their blood to flow down onto their hands. Most had done it so many times that their forearms were stained brown.

Laroth was still disgusted by that part of the religion, but compared to the trials of physical pain giving a few more gold coins seems a small loss. The man who isn’t willing to sacrifice his blood gives more gold in guilty compensation, and the man willing to destroy his own flesh will give everything he owns without thought.

As they had many times before the crowd quickly filled Laroth’s donation plates. Laroth stayed after, talking to the fanatical that regaled him with increasingly horrific stories of their own self-mutilation. Laroth made no comment to his own suffering, though most supposed it was great and they enviously eyed the dark stains that slipped from his robe and covered up both of his hands. Though they had no idea it was only the stains from a daily wash of beet juice. There was no reason to make sacrifices to a god Laroth made up himself.

When the crowd was finally gone there were only two left in the small shrine to Temeluchus, a man in a deep green cloak, and an odd boy sitting beside him who wore a pumpkin colored shirt. The boy was thin, awkward and unwilling to meet Laroth’s gaze when he looked at him. The man was powerfully built, and his clothes were richly detailed. Laroth was surprised he didn’t notice him during the sermon, as he had a talent for noticing wealthy listeners, though Laroth sensed a greater power in him than just his wealth.

The richly appointed man lowered the hood of his cloak to reveal his face. It was an easy one to recognize as it was on statues all across Patria. It was the Patrian king, Kylorin.

“My king,” Laroth stammered “I am honored that you would grace this small temple of Temeluchus.”

“The honor is mine, you are a powerful speaker and I found your sermon inspirational.” He answered. Then after a pause he added, “Wasn’t this a shrine to Arawn a few weeks ago?”

Laroth pretended to think as Kylorin rose and walked up to the front. The boy followed in his shadow.

“Yes, I believe it was. Though why the fine citizens of Patria would want to throw gold into graves is beyond me. I think the priest was just keeping the donations for himself.”

“Indeed.” Kylorin said with a smile.

Laroth suddenly remembered he was talking to the king and added a quick, “yes, I mean, of course your majesty.” And then gave a slight bow.

The boy scoffed, rolling his eyes at the genuflecting preacher.

Laroth raised his head to smile at the boy, that smile that had won over so many. Laroth wasn’t an attractive man, he was spindly and bookish even in his late twenties. But men and women alike couldn’t help but feel calm and comforted by his presence.

But that was not how the boy reacted. The boy became enraged and leapt at Laroth. Laroth was so surprised that stepped back and tripped over the short railing around the altar sending both of them tumbling down in a clumsy pile of knees and elbows.

“You’re a donkey, you’re a donkey,” the boy yelled irrationally.

In the confusion those words were all that Laroth could hear, feel or see. The world melted away until that was the only concept left in it. Laroth brayed loudly at the attacking boy, then rolling over onto all fours he began kicking wildly. His second kick caught the boy in the stomach and knocked him back over the railing where Kylorin caught him.

“Henri! Stop it!” the king yelled.

The delusion of being a donkey disappeared and Laroth found himself hunched on all fours by the altar. He hadn’t been physically changed, but for those few seconds he truly believed he was a donkey. Embarrassed he picked himself up.

“That boy, he did something to me!” Laroth said.

Henri smiled, though his ribs still hurt he really enjoyed the sight of the braying and bucking preacher.

“Perhaps,” Kylorin said. “Though it could be said that you attacked him first.”

Laroth didn’t comment.

Kylorin continued, “You convert a lot of people to your god. Many disciples go out and try to spread the message you have given them. They repeat your sermons but few convert to them. And after you leave a town the faithful always drift off and forget your message. Men so devoted that some punish themselves to the point of death gradually turn back to normal lives. Have you ever wondered why?”

Laroth winced when Kylorin mentioned the deaths. It was unfortunate that some took the message to far. Especially those that were closest to him, the longer he stayed in one area the more likely the fanatical deaths were. That was why he moved from city to city every few months.

“I assume that I am blessed by Temeluchus. That I am the one he has chosen to spread his message.”

The boy scoffed again. Kylorin had stopped smiling.

“That cannot be,” Kylorin said, “because Temeluchus isn’t real. You made him up. So then why do people so eagerly convert to your message, and ignore it from others?”

“Temeluchus is a great god, during the godswar he…” Laroth started, ready to defend his god as he did many times to visiting priests and fanatics of other religions.

Kylorin interrupted, “Your son, didn’t he serve as an acolyte in your services?”

Laroth felt his passionate defense melt away, he only nodded to the question.

“He was young,” Kylorin said “11 or 12 years old. You were training him in your craft, teaching him to evangelize as you do. You had even told him the truth, that there was no Temeluchus, so that he wouldn’t be in danger. What happened to his mother?”

Laroth looked at the ground, unwilling to meet the kings eyes. “She was one of my first converts, I was really little more than a boy myself at the time. She died in worship to Temeluchus.”

“So you raised your son on your own until he was old enough to work for you. He must have heard hundreds of sermons. But you thought that if he knew the truth, he would be safe. But even though you told him the truth, even though he saw you pocket the donations every night, even though he listened to you laugh at the gullible worshippers that came to your sermons, he still believed. And in secret he was worshipping Temeluchus. But you didn’t know until you found him dead.”

Laroth broke down, dropping his head into his hands he sobbed and his sorrow flooded out of him, through the shrine and out into the city. Henri was also overcome and started crying as did many within blocks of the temple.

Kylorin braced himself. He was guarded from the energy Laroth was radiating but even he hadn’t expected how unintentionally powerful the preacher was. Kylorin knew Laroth had an amazing talent for spirit magic, that he would make a powerful archmage, but he hadn’t expected it to flow so easily from the bookish preacher. Even through Kylorin’s protections he felt the grip of his own sadness, though he quickly pushed it away.

Kylorin placed a hand on Henri’s shoulder, breaking the spell and the boy recovered from his sobs. Though angry, Henri was too exhausted by the flood of emotion and simply sat down in the front pew.

In a few minutes Laroth regained his composure.

“Why did you keep preaching after your son’s death?” Kylorin asked, unwilling to let the painful subject go.

“I stopped for a while,” Laroth answered, wiping off his face with the sleeve of his robe. “But I’m not suited to be a farmer or cobbler. It’s really all I do well. What else do I have to lose?”

Kylorin and Laroth talked for the rest of the night. Kylorin explained magic, explained Laroth’s power and offered him the opportunity to learn to control it. By morning the shrine was empty, though it would quickly be adopted by some random cult or religion, the worship of Temeluchus was over.
Click to expand...

Many thanks. It's quite nice to know my guesses as to Laroth's character were reasonably accurate... though I confess quite a few of my characterizations were made based off of theories and comments from (who else?) MagisterCultuum. I believe it was he who suggested Laroth would make people make sacrifices for him; this was the core suggestion, in fact, that I built Laroth around. I'd never imagined a wife and child, though; such an individual struck me as far too dangerous for any close relationships. (Though considering their fate, this technically still seems the case.) And while, in retrospect, a conman seemed the most obvious pre-archmage job for such a person, I'd never guessed it.
I could swear I've heard the name "Temeluchus" somewhere before... he's apparently an extracanonical Christian demon, but that wouldn't have been where...
 
Laroth wasnt married to her and he was very young at the time, in the 15 year old range.
 
Pedia text for Taunt in 0.41:

Henri Ghouls, the prince of fools
As clumsy as they come
From foster homes to boarding schools
He’s kicked from every one
Until the day, the king would say
He’d make Henri his son
But even with new toys to play
We all think he is dumb

- Patrian rhyme
Click to expand...
 
Wikipedia says Temeluchus means "far away fighter" and is seen as an angel/demon of torment, and oddly also a caretaker of infants.


When spelled Telemachus it apparently is Odysseus's son, and has the same meaning. (The first person to come to my mind when I read Temeluchus was actually Telemachus Rhade from the SciFi show Andromeda.) The angel/demon's name is likely a late ancient or medieval misspelling.



I always thought of Laroth as a thin, "spindly" man, although without much to base that on. I could never really picture him with a beard like in KC's tale. I tend to think he would have rather short, flat, thin hair, which would eventually be snow white but when younger was probably a mousy brown.




Who is "Henri" in this story? Anyone we know of? Are you care to reveal? Is he known by any other name? (Before Kylorin said his name, I was thinking the child was likely a young Perpentach.)
 
Yeah, Henri Ghouls is the boy who will one day become Perpentach. Making that the most pathedic battle between archmages ever to happen in Erebus history (though to be fair neither of them are archmages yet).
 
So is Perpentach actually a title and not a name? Does he even remember that his true name is Henri?
 
Kael said:
Yeah, Henri Ghouls is the boy who will one day become Perpentach. Making that the most pathedic battle between archmages ever to happen in Erebus history (though to be fair neither of them are archmages yet).
Click to expand...

Well I must admit ol perp sure made an ass out of Lorath. Bada Bada BING!! Thank you thank you, I will be here all night !!!!
 
thewyrm said:
So is Perpentach actually a title and not a name? Does he even remember that his true name is Henri?
Click to expand...

Perpentach is a name. Im sure his real name is in his head somewhere.

Avahz Darkwood said:
Well I must admit ol perp sure made an ass out of Lorath. Bada Bada BING!! Thank you thank you, I will be here all night !!!!
Click to expand...

:lol:
 
Oh wow, another one of the few Erebusians with Earth-names: Henri. And it's French too :lol: I can't remember, do the Balseraphs use the French voice files?
 
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