Random Stories and Fragments

The Great Library
Spoiler 1500 words :
The library's majesty would be a thing of legend. Sebill's view from the fifth floor spanned from the northern slums out to Nubia's western wall and beyond that to where the countryside was trampled underfoot by mountains. Moving a crate of books, new acquisitions from the latest campaigns, she broke her gaze from the window. She was at odds with herself; technically, she'd achieved her goal and become a chief librarian at the world's greatest library. It was what she had promised her childhood friends she'd do, then they in turn would dream up something they thought was even more fantastic. Yet here she was. Slaving. Forced into her wishes' fulfillment by ravenous men under a new moon.

Her town was alight with burning houses as she woke to the screams. She shook her husband awake, scrambled for her weapon, and used it on the first blood-drenched man who burst into the bedroom. His comrades behind him overpowered her. All she could remember feeling at that moment was insult at the fact that they showed no desire to kill her. Instead, one man constrained her on the bed while they dragged her husband outside. She shrieked and swung her fists, until an attacker brought a torch into the room. In the light the men saw the bedroom and its bookshelf-lined walls. Their faces flushed with joy and they shouted congratulations to each other. That was when they knocked her unconscious.


...there's no noise what's going on? I'm deaf no I'm dead oh good there's noise the chains oh damn me the chains. How dare they keep me down here what did they do to her the next time one of them comes down here I'll wrap these chains around him... Where is everybody I'm alone I'm alone they'll never come for me I'll die here what have they done with her I'll starve here if my heart doesn't explode first I just want to tear them to pieces! Can't stop shaking the walls are too noisy I can't hear myself how can I... Huh? They're coming those are footsteps I'll kill them and I'll get out and find her oh I'll never see her again... One footsteps two feet could it be her they don't sound hard... oh my angel what if it's her she's come to kill me oh my angel it is her!


Sebill hadn't seen her husband since. And now there she was, the woman she'd always wanted to be. Only the library wasn't what she'd hoped for. It was supposed to be a paragon of learning, open to all, with a collection spanning history and all of Erebus. This was a perversion, a library of spoils, built on the sudden whim of that monstrous queen Alexis to actually know something about the people she and her brother were slaughtering. And she'd let Flauros build it! It was a wonder he had any slaves left over to clean up the blood of those who built it. Sebill was horrified to hear that Alexis had been the one to finally build Erebus's greatest library, now known as the Library of Alexis. Sebill never wanted anything to do with it, but now she was its chief archivist. It was more of a wound than a title. Still, she had books. She passed the time by imagining that the library had been built by someone else: perhaps in the Kuriotate lands it would be a bridge across race and politics; in Amurite lands its knowledge would be treated with proper respect.

Books, protected by sturdy leather covers, were durable and could last ages if properly cared for. But books in Erebus were only as permanent as societies allowed. Warring nations expunged conquered peoples' libraries with the rest of their culture. The Age of Ice preserved the previous ages’ treasures well, as long as firewood was more plentiful than books. The real damage came with the destruction of literate societies who knew the value of old histories and treatises. Still, Sebill thought, maybe Alexis's collection will serve some good in the long run. Perhaps Sebill's dreams were not totally lost. Spending her days cataloging family histories, journals, folktales, scientific works, philosophies, and everything else brought in from homes and palace libraries gave her faith that one day this could be shared with the world.

She unloaded the books onto the table--They were her books. She stared at them, telling herself that this was inevitable, and yet she was holding the books that belonged to her and her former neighbors. She tried to detach herself, but opening the covers felt like tearing new flesh off wounds. "Is this the last I'll ever see of my life?" she despaired. One book confirmed that it would be: a ledger, a report of the raid on her town.


it's her it's her she came for me she sees me she'll kill me I have to kill her I'm scared I hate her I hate those men that's a sharp knife I'm going to die I should die I'm worthless I'm afraid hate hate them her skin cuts so fine

"Come on you. Drink up."

blood! she's bleeding I can taste it already these chains hurt I want her to notice me let me go I must taste her fingers the cut is so sharp I can feel the cut on my tongue I'm okay I'll be okay she loves me I'm home I'm hers her hand is so soft it could tear me to pieces I want her to she can have me all in little bits she'll protect me my angel my angel I'll climb under her shadow her dress I'll be engulfed in her darkness her peaceful darkness she'll hold me and I'll be okay I'll be hers I'll be nothing in her abyss she loves me she will always protect me...


Sneaking out was unnecessary. Sebill doubted it was because they trusted her; perhaps they were certain they could find her if she ran off. The masters ignored other slaves, but had to address her because of the role they gave her. Eye contact was rare, but they had an odd way of acknowledging her presence by letting her know they were smelling her. Tonight she was betting they wouldn't find her quickly enough.

The ledger had listed the spoils, the "acquisitions." House #6 Contents. Books: 156. Woman: Educated: For especial use, she read. Man: Drunk, superior physical condition: For conscription in Red Barracks. Weapons only other items of value. She knew of the so-called “Red Barracks.” Other librarians spoke fearfully, sorrowfully, of their loved ones sent there.

She agonized during the following nights. After her life had been destroyed her only possible comfort was having all the world's books and time enough at last to read. Now that had become her hell. The only truth she wanted was outside the library. She had to find the Red Barracks.

And she did. She was ushered right in through the front doors the moment she was spotted sneaking underneath a window. She protested, feigned ignorance, fought, but was pulled before a woman wrapping her hand in a bandage. Sebill froze; her. Alexis looked at Sebill with a sneer.

"Mistress, we found her snooping. She looks like--"

"I don't care what she is. Come. Bring her." She turned and walked with her saturating, scarlet-bandaged hand at her side.

"Bring her in here."

Sebill was thrown to the floor in a small, windowless room. The light from the room outside shone past her, and onto a man chained to the wall. Sebill bounced to her feet, but was stunned when she saw him.

"Ain! Oh!" she shouted and ran to him. He stared at her without recognition and his lips trembled with senseless mutterings. Alexis entered the room and watched with contempt as Sebill tried to get Ain to look at her. Ain was transfixed by Alexis. Suddenly a look of eagerness showed on his face and he noticed Sebill for the first time.

"Ain! It's me, dear!" She shook Ain and rubbed his cheeks in growing hysteria. Her eyes widened in both fear and hope when Ain looked at her. In him she saw savagery mixed with his eagerness to please. Four eyes with four different emotions looked at each other across the chasm of their broken lives. Ain then looked to Alexis, who remained still and observant in the doorway. She was glad--tonight she had something interesting to give the new recruit. She was losing interest in tossing unsatisfactory guards to these things.

Sebill, nearly sobbing, tried futilely to find her husband in this man. Ain, however, flourished in the queen's attention. Sebill was too confused to react when Ain grabbed her throat and throttled her. He found little resistance from her body as Alexis's blood burned inside him. His wife's essence slipped away and Ain looked to his queen for affirmation.


Spoiler inspiration :
A dream I had on the bus: I'm trapped in a dark room. I'm alone and feeling extremely paranoid and depressed. There are people beyond the walls and I blame them for keeping me here and I can't imagine why they would. A slender middle-aged woman enters the room. I'm not afraid of her, but I don't know how I should react. She doesn't speak, but she looks at me. She has a long knife, which she uses to cut her hand from the knuckle between her thumb and index finger to the tip of her finger. The cut is so fine and sharp that blood doesn't immediately appear. She hold out her hand disdainfully toward me. Blood runs down her finger and collects beneath her fingernail. I take her hand and put her finger in my mouth. With my tongue I can feel the edges of her skin where the knife cut. I suck until the blood stops and she pulls back with her hand clean. I now feel loved and protected and without worry whatsoever. I feel that she cares for me above all else. She leaves the room.



Catacomb Libralus
Spoiler 1800 words :
Sebill arrived at a door marked “Acquisitions.” The coachman escorted her to the door and gave it two hard knocks. It opened to reveal a miniscule butcher. The dwarf looked up at the coachman and noted Sebill. “Good! Good!” he said and ushered them into what looked like a carpenter’s workshop—only one in which the wood had bled when cut. “I commend you for your haste; we here are great appreciators of body magic, you know. You ought to be well paid for your effort. Do you need new horses?”

“They are well,” answered the coachman, “they’re of strong breed and can withstand the spells. With enough food and rest tonight they’ll have their stamina back.”

“They’re fine animals, an’t they?” the dwarf said affably, clearing tools off a table. He was joined by a greying female dwarf wearing an equally dirty apron. “Splendid!” she said. “Let’s get started. I’m Odea, he’s Hahm, in case he didn’t introduce himself.”

“Anton,” said the coachman.

Odea turned to examine Sebill. “Let’s get a look at you… Even better than I expected! Let’s get you on the table.” Anton stepped forward to help lift Sebill, but saw it was unnecessary as Odea, despite her size, moved Sebill to the dwarf-sized table without effort. Odea smiled, “She’s empty. No organs. I asked our clients in Nubia to clean her to prevent spoiling. Kept out of the sun the bodies can make the trip in adequate shape.” Anton nodded. Odea thought he seemed uneasy. “I’m sorry, did you know her?”

“No, no… I have no idea who she is, or why she’s important to the nobles. She doesn’t look like an aristocrat.” He paused, then motioned toward the door, “I have the rest of the delivery in my carriage.”

“Her blood I’m sure. Would you fetch that? Hahm needs to check it and make sure the anticoagulants held up. There are a number of naturally occurring blood thinners in just about every land, but ours are better. I have some theories about speeding the reactions to make the ink less corrosive, but that would require entropy mana which can be hard to come by…”

Outside, Anton gave the blood to Hahm and moved his horses into the shade. This was his first visit to the Luchuirp lands. He admitted to himself that he’d always been a little racist toward dwarves, but couldn’t think of any reason why. He looked at and admired the structure of the Catacomb Libralus; from what he'd heard he assumed it was nothing more than a one-trick curiosity shop. It was originally built as a catacomb open to all, until necromancers developed a habit of exploiting it, leading to the pejoration of the name “Free-Use Catacombs.” Later it was acquired by a wealthy polymath, who turned it into the institution that is now commonly nicknamed the “Catacomb Librarius.” Above ground it was a simple structure with short walls and an entrance adorned with regal arches and pillars.

Anton returned to the workshop to see Odea in the process of skinning Sebill. Incisions ran up the middle of her chest, along her collarbone, and above her hips. Odea was paring the fatty membrane holding skin to muscle as she pulled the skin upward. Anton groaned at the sight, which alerted Odea that he’d returned. She explained, her enthusiasm outweighing her sympathy for Anton’s uneasiness, “The skin’s in good shape. We use it all. Her back—because its smoother and thicker—will be tanned and used to make the cover. The rest we stretch into vellum for the pages.” Odea paused, Anton was staring at Sebill’s body. “It’s not pretty, I know. This is an honorable afterlife though. I used to do Golemcraft, but animating a golem is like rolling a stone down a hill—it's predictable, it’s all it does. Books are the perfect synthesis of form and function, body and spirit, mythos and logos. They are us in every way.” She put down her knife, and Anton sat on short ladder. Odea continued, “We can put any talent to use here. You practice magic?”

“I do some, just tricks to help my deliveries—speed the horses, hide my wares. Just dabblings.”

“Ice! Imagine what you could do with ice mana! We could add people from any corner of Erebus to our collection. You could make your fortune just transporting food to soldiers. Ah, if only we could get some…” Anton laughed. He’d thought of this before. Odea continued, “We use a range of magic here: body helps us transform the person, but that’s mostly handiwork; our diviners use spirit magic to contact the dead; and enchanters can infuse the books with special properties. Luckily we’re in a land where necromancy is outlawed, or we’d have a lot to worry about. Should I take you to see some of our collection?”

“Thank you,” he replied, “but I have to stable my horses first. I should find an inn.”

“Fine by me. I need to work and I can’t have distractions. Come back later for a tour.” Odea smiled, “Now get out of here.”


A week had passed since Anton delivered Sebill. He’d gone north to meet a Calabim rendezvous who took the carriage, leaving Anton with a horse. Now returning to the fortified city, he spent the evening at a public house, waiting for nightfall. He made his way back to the Catacomb Libralus and to the door marked “Acquisitions.” He knocked. If Odea answered he’d have an excuse for being there. If she didn’t, then things would be according to plan. He picked the lock and slipped inside. There was barely any light and he waited for his eyes to adjust. The tables were cleaned and the tools put away. A door in back opened to a lantern-lit corridor.

When he entered the main hall he realized he’d underestimated the age and grandeur of this place. He thought the library at his former mages' guild was large, but he’d never seen this many books. The hall was lined with shelves of books in every skin color, all facing out. Numerous corridors descended into the catacombs, all filled with books. Anton despaired when he wondered how he would find a single book in all this, until he saw years inscribed above the corridors’ arches.

He entered the most recent corridor, which had just started to be used in the last five years. He walked straight to the end of the row. A small engraving was underneath the last book. Some Malakim name; the book was too dark anyway and had a tattoo of a lion on the cover. The second-to-last book was a pale tan, like a dry meadow. The engraving underneath read “unknown” and named the year of death. The book before that was greyish green and had a single horn jutting out from the spine. He picked up the tan one. It was about two hands tall and a little less wide. The cover was soft—it was leather after all. The spine was sturdy. Bone? He imagined it was her sternum, and thought of her breasts, one skinless, the other just dead. He opened the cover and ran his finger along the inside spine. The pages were sewn to the cover using string made of brown hair. There was writing on the first page, in ink that was still reddish and had not faded into brown. It said: My dear Ain—You'll never read this, but please know that I love you eternally. A chill shook him. He tucked Sebill’s book into his pack and returned to the main hall.

He looked at the dates above the arches, and walked down the next corridor. Both sides of the corridor were lined with books facing each other. A jumble of names grew in his head as he scanned the engravings.

“Are you looking for something, Anton?” He spun to see Odea in the middle of the corridor. She looked relaxed; he tried his best to. Her apron was gone and she was dressed comfortably, striking Anton as quite pretty.

“Um… yes. A book. A book of... my grandfather.”

“Anything else?”

“…No.”

“What was his name?”

Anton glanced toward the main hall to see if Odea was alone. “Gerard Cormand.”

“I know of him! Quite the revolutionary in his day. Did you know him?”

“I didn’t. My father opposed his politics and left the city, taking his family along. I was born on a farm.”

“Your grandfather was murdered before the revolution ended, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. I have to know that it wasn’t… father.”

“Your grandfather is here,” she pointed farther down the corridor. Anton cautiously followed her lead. “Our diviners enjoy limited success in becoming a writing tool for the dead, allowing them to make a final statement.”

“The dead write?” probed Anton.

“We ask them if there’s anything they’d like to say. They’re usually thinking about what they would have done differently in life, so they’re full of advice. They might eulogize themselves, or tell their entire life’s story—we give the diviners a short vacation to recover after those. These are good souls, mind you; we don’t even want to know the dangers of making an unscrupulous book.”

“That woman,” thought Anton, “what has she done to make her so valuable to the Calabim?”

“Victims of murder usually have something to say…” Odea stopped walking and motioned toward a book, smaller than Sebill’s and paler.

Anton said, “Would he have named his killer?” Odea didn’t answer, and Anton lifted his grandfather’s book. He opened it and read: I liked the fleshy sins best. He turned the pages: blank. He sighed deeply, and put the book down. Odea took a step back. “Are you going to return the other book too?”

Anton faced Odea with a widened stance. “No. I’m sorry, but I’m stealing it.” He held a knife at her eye level and took a slow step toward her.

“I can’t stop you,” she said calmly. “This is a mistake though. These books are extremely dangerous in the wrong hands. They must never leave.”

“I know. Your ‘clients’ haven’t given me any choice though.” They circled each other in a cautious dance. Seeing the main hall clear, Anton left through the front door.


Outside the city walls, Anton snuck to his horse, mounted her, and pointed her back north. He hadn’t ridden far when a sudden strong wind, or that’s what it felt like, threw him off his horse, spilling his pack. He saw in the dark the looming shape of a gargoyle, its wings blocking the light from the city. He ran, and would have died on the spot if it weren’t for his haste spell. Instead, he died at the forest’s edge a short length away, while the Book of Sebill remained beside the road.


Our heroine
or what's left of her
will return in
The Necronomicon

Comments and criticism are appreciated.
 
Why can't all you great writers be in my thread? :p

Well, the reason may differ for others, but joining in a project such as yours, mid-flow, would be a tricky song for me; a lot of reading up and making sure I'm fitting in proper-like. You'll notice most of my writings, aside from the occasional reference to one another and a handful of common non-canon characters (i.e. Adept Morin, Ozziel), are self-contained. As I'm sure MagisterCultuum can attest, sticking to canon for me is an arduous task; that's why I generally write about things canon generally doesn't touch. That said, I might give it a shot, if the whim strikes me.
 
I hope so. You can actually adopt a civ if you want. Just gotta let me know. Darksaber1 got the lizards and someone else got a civ I haven't introduced.
 
You and I talked already, but mainly because I don't know jack crap about FF. Maybe putting together a compendium would be a good way to learn it.

There's stuff from normal FFH. But let's not use this to discuss my thread.
 
This is the third part of these stories. I'd love some opinions from the writing crowd.

The Necronomicon
Spoiler 1000 words :
As the sun set into the ocean, its colors multiplied and shone across the sedated waters. Dying light in grapefruit and blood-orange shades pierced the temple’s windows and comingled with the blues and greens, never mixing. The lights shimmered across the town’s rooftops, glowing like the tolling of church bells as worshippers walked to the ocean and temple. For some, worship was to admire the ocean, to be present at its show. Others preferred immersion, giving their bodies to the water (metaphorically) as a way of saying I owe you everything. Inside the temple the faithful bathed in the flowing water, letting the incense riding in the thick air penetrate their skin. Their minds flowed with the water and gave way to visions and serenity. A Priest of Whispers watched over as the din of the chamber filled with echoes of mumblings, humming, and short cries of ecstasy.

Farther within the temple, Captain Grey-Eye of the Jury Rig raised his head after bowing to High Speaker The Bones of Its Mother Are Luminous Eyes.

“What have you brought us, Captain?”

Grey-Eye was as faithful to the priests as any successful sea captain should be. He prayed regularly, both on the waves and on shore, and always gave a portion of his gold spoils back to the sea. Such spoils were what brought him before the Speaker in his hometown temple.

“Rumors from the Calabim lands speak of rich bounties for a treasure they’ve apparently misplaced.”

“I know. The ebb and flow of water brings me news from around the world.”

“Then y’know better than I the significance of the Book of Sable; I know none more than what they’ve offered to pay.”

The Speaker stared through unblinking, sunken eyes. He was hairless, pale, and skeletal but his voice was like the creaking of the Jury Rig’s mast. He was Speaker when Grey-Eye worshipped here as a child and hadn’t changed appearance.

“I will pay anything you ask. However, when the bargaining is done I have a favor to ask of you.”

“You’re too generous, Your Resonance. If you’re paying in Lanun coins, I’ll take the Calabim’s price. I accept the favor—what is it?”

“I’m sending a priestess with you on your ship. She has a mission and you will find her abilities useful. Leave the book on the altar. Your service has been invaluable as always, Captain.” Grey-Eye bowed his head and was escorted away. The Speaker regarded the book in front of him. The cover was a lightly colored and flimsy leather, dirty and weathered. The pages were becoming brittle. Human flesh no doubt; a product of the Catacomb Libralus, whose books were well guarded by the golems. No books ever left that city, making the Book of Sable especially rare. The High Speaker knew it was not chance, but the will of the unseen that brought the book to this temple.

He carried the book to the chamber of dreamers beneath the temple, where pools and pillars formed from mineral and organic deposits. The blessed seawater flowed throughout as dreamers lay in small pools. He approached a dreamer, a female in her teenage years, whose hair undulated like living tendrils in the water beneath her. A clay jar by her head had the words “the book of dead names sees beyond the depths” etched into it. The Speaker gave the book to one of the dreamers’ attendants and ordered that it be placed in an empty pool.

“Speaker, do books dream?”

“It is the ocean that dreams. We are blessed to be a part of it.”

A voice from one of the pools spoke, “the dreams of the unseen permeate all creation.” Everyone awake in the room chanted in response, “the dreams of the unseen permeate all creation.”

“And thus shall you be called,” intoned the Speaker, his voice penetrating the sleep of the dreamer who spoke. He watched the attendant lay the book in the water. The attendant punctured a needle into the front cover, as he would into a vein, and lit the wick in the needle’s tube. He did this out of habit; the book lacked the biology to carry the smoldering wax’s substance throughout the bloodstream, but this was how the dreaming was induced.

It was two hours before any change was noted. The Speaker still stood over the dreamers, patient, faithful, and curious. The teenage girl stirred and minds melded in the stream. Her limbs twitched as the lingering consciousness from the book felt forgotten corporeality.

“Speak,” commanded the Speaker. The girl remained silent and made small splashes as she moved. The Speaker said, “I seek the source of whispers.”

He continued his commands until the girl settled down. Finally she spoke in her young voice, “I refuse.”

“You are powerless to refuse. You will navigate the sea of dreams and find for me the source.”

“I can’t move.”

“Tell me what you see.”

“I see everything. The dreams of everything. All at once, every one a shadow, fluid.”

“Look beyond them.”

“There is only darkness beyond the dreams.”

“Go there. I compel you.” His voice reverberated in the chamber. He had not chosen to pursue this. He didn’t consider it a choice. He was following the will of his masters, as spoken through the dreamers.

“Whispers… I feel them… Pressure… I can’t understand them, but every syllable crushes me…”

“Move toward it. I will speak to it.”

“There’s a being—shapeless, immense… there’s… an eye—”

At that moment the temple erupted with shrieks and wails of terror and pain. The Speaker fell forward and moaned, devoid of any thought or function. The young dreamer convulsed and died. At the temple’s entrance worshippers ran into the town, possessed of nightmarish panic. They dashed themselves into walls and gouged at their throats with any tool available, trying to wake themselves from the nightmare they were in fact not in. Others remained in the temple, writhing and gurgling in the blessed water. Either they were stronger than the others, or perhaps more susceptible to the climactic vision, but they survived nonetheless. Of that moment, all could remember nothing more than the color yellow.

The temple was soon reopened for public worship. The surviving worshippers who rose to prominence joined the remaining priests. They became the caretakers of the temple that housed the Book of Sable, on whose pages appeared the names of the faithful who died for the Lord of Nightmares on that day.
Comments and criticism are appreciated.
 
I think "grapefruit shades [of light]" and "I owe you everything" don't sound very well in the context, but otherwise I like the entry. Oh, and wasn't it "Sebill" in the original? Or is "Sable" the Lanunified version of the word? :) (Incidentally, it also means sand in French... didn't the Lanun have the French sound files?)
 
I think "grapefruit shades [of light]" and "I owe you everything" don't sound very well in the context, but otherwise I like the entry. Oh, and wasn't it "Sebill" in the original? Or is "Sable" the Lanunified version of the word? :) (Incidentally, it also means sand in French... didn't the Lanun have the French sound files?)

Thanks. Those two lines didn't work, huh...?

My thinking was that the name got lost in translation over time and in its travels. Perhaps the Calabim knew her name was "something like Sable," or people just misheard its name as Sable instead of Sebill. I didn't know it meant sand, and the Lanun do have French sound files. That's funny.

edit: I was wrong. Lanun have Spanish sound files.
 
The lost in translation version sounds like something that could really happen, so I think it's ok. :)
 
Should anyone bother writing a pedia Entry about a certain Jeone, who leads the War Hawk faction of the Grigori Senate, i'd be more than willing to stick it into my Modmod... (he is an aggressive Grigori leader, with the traits aggressive, tolerant, and philosophical)
 
Erebusbook -
May be best to read from the bottom up...
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Ethne is thinking
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Thessa ooh what are you thinking about chick?
Ethne oh you know....things
Charadon Ethne - I've had enough of your drivel, you spend all day faffing around with poxey polls, and posting inane comments that say bugger all. I only added you as a friend cos I thought there might be some hot pics to help me keep of the winter chill.


Ethne the White
1. Flowers 2. Butterflies 3. Strapping Knights 4. Incense 5. Woodland
Pick your favourite things about Erebus
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Keelyn iz cringin. Y do parentz av 2 embaraz us?
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Ethne you can get through it sweetheart! Thinkin' of you x
Perpentach please young miss, give me a clue, I'm a tad confused why I am friends with you


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Perpentach wibble, wobble, wibble onk, a cow and spoon and lots of plonk
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Ethne the White has been taking the loving test;
Your heart bleeds for Erebus
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Flauros fancies a nibble
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Alexis you and me both bro!


Falamar has been busy with the ladies ;)
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Rohanna you are a one! You visiting a port near me anytime soon...
Falamar my mast is hoisted already sweetpea...


Jonas Endain wants to go stomping!
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Basium bring it on spike!


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Wow, I had to think hard to understand. But it's funny! Ethne! Ow... :love:
 
I can't think of a non-Spoilerlisous title
Spoiler :

I stand in the ruins of the Temple, the mark of the evil that destroyed this holy place all around me. But I need it not. The trees are the pillars of the walls, the leaves overhead the stained glass and the vault. The moss on the alter it’s holy vestments. And the angel, shining in the sun the priest. It speaks, in every tongue, yet only the one I understand. It speaks, yet with no voice. I see its thoughts, its meaning, its intent, in images, as one would describe sight to a blind man. It speaks of the evil that curses the land, raises armies in the name of lies and falsehoods. A priesthood of corruption, and taint, serving themselves as much as the gods they claim to serve. I see demons, burning, destroying all who stand in there way. And I know what it speaks is truth. All might life I have seen it, yet the lies of the priests would blind me to the truth. And so I raise my eyes to the Angel, resplendent in its glory, and I scream my pledges and my oaths to its god, and It steps down from the alter, to embrace me in its black and gold.
 
Something I mused up last night. Am am to the Grigori what others are to the Calabaim, the Shaim, and so on.

---

25 Facts of the Grigori Nation

1. Cassiel was the Archangel of Force, and is renowned for his opposition to the God's meddling in Creation. Even after his fall, he is a strong force of Balance in the world.

2. Many a neglectful foe has forgotten that Balance is not synonymous with Neutrality in political and military squabbles, and that all Balances are maintained by equal and opposite applications of Force.

3. Few nations have ever given the forces of both Good and Evil common cause for concern. The Grigori joke that one day they will bring peace between the Gods once they all join to destroy them.

4. When he first heard that joke, Cassiel asked his attendants if she thought it might work. The attendant laughed and said the Grigori would win against the Gods.

5. That night, the first Lunnotar entered the capital.

6. Cassiel has never used the full extent of his abilities and is infamous for not even using them to protect himself, let alone his people. For his foes, it is a concession they are eager to take: for his people, it is a demonstration of his faith in them.

7. Cassiel does many things that mortals do not expect of an angel. He drinks, he has experimented with tobacco and other drugs, he has sex. When surprised visitors disbelieve the last part, he asks what would be the reason or balance for an existence of total abstinency: even the gods have been known to indulge in their desires to various extents, and the children of angels are the stuff of legend.

8. Truth be told, Cassiel has bed more women (and men) than mortal human Falamar could ever aspire to. This is only because of his immortal age, mind you, but if he desired to match Cassiel's record Falamar would have to bed a dozen women a day for the next half century.

9. Despite his millenia of experiences, Cassiel has never acknowledged to fathering a child. If he ever did, he would treat them just as he would treat any other Grigori.

10. That is because the Grigori people consider Cassiel as their Father regardless of their birth parents, and he considers them all as his Beloved Children.

11. Just like any paternal relationship, there are strains and disappointments on both ends. Cassiel suffers bouts of despair and disappointment for the actions and beliefs of his people. His people often come to consider his ideals impracticle and unsuited for a competitive world.

12. But nothing makes Cassiel prouder than when his people exemplify his hopes and ideals without intentional effort, and the Grigori are never more awed until the value of his counsel is made proven once again.

13. Cassiel would give his life for the lives of the Grigori. The Grigori nation would submit to save his.

14. “Grigori” means many things to many people. To most abroad, it is a people under Cassiel. To the Grigori, it is an idea of what they are and seek to be. To Cassiel, it is what he hopes the whole world will become.

15. There are many nations Cassiel approves of on a personal level. He admires the technical advances of the Luchirp who prove how much is possible without divine intervention. He thinks well of the Amurites who would study the nature of magic so that they might contest even the Gods. The racial and cultural tolerance and integration of the Elohim and Kuriotates are what he sees as the next stage of Grigori development.

16. There is much he can chide well. The Luchirp too often thank Kilimorph for the fruit of their own labor. The Amurites' desire for magical power leads them unto temptation by darker gods. Both the Elohim and Kuriotates will upset the Balance in their self-righteous momentum if they are not checked.

17. They are checked by their fores, whether the malevolent Sheaim or the barbaric Doviello, and so the Grigori need not involve themselves directly. For the Grigori neutrality is dependent on that balance, and they might act whichever way is needed to restore the balance.

18. The sense of balance is the key to deciphering Cassiel's thoughts as to foreign policy. The smartest diplomats know that their chances lie in framing the questions accordingly. But not even they can truly answer the question “the balance of what?” By his nature as a proselytizer of his philosophy, he isn't interested in the status quo.

19. When Cassiel fell, Agares himself came unto him in a dream. He did not offer the the angel rank or honors, but beseached him to ally himself in order to counter the unmatched advances of the Gods of Good.

20 When Cassiel fell, Bhall herself came unto him in a dream. She did not offer the angel rank or honors, but beseached him to ally himself in order to counter the subtle corruptions of spirit of the Gods of Evil.

21. Cassiel turn his back to both of them, and sought out those who would be his first followers.

22. Even before the Age of Rebirth, Cassiel's philosphers were well respected across the world. They were welcomed in any court, for their ideas were often to the advantage of any king who wished to distance himself from the Priests or who desired a more self-motivated populace.

23. In the Age of Rebirth, his nation has shown a tendency to ignore his tidings when inconvenient. Whether AWOL Adventurers or sharply disagreeing politicians, his ideals have given birth to a people who can and will disagree with him.

24. At times it frustrates him to no avail, because each step they take seems like one more step farther than he intended. But then he remembers his own disagreement with his Creator, and he can never bring himself to stop them, and in the end they always make him proud regardless. Because they do think for themselves, and that means they can come into disagreement with him.

25. Cassiel is the ArchAngel of Force, and remains one of the most powerful beings alive in creation. But Cassiel never feels tempted to use such power, because he knows that if he did the Grigori would oppose him for all that they are. And he has no doubt they would rightly teach him a lesson.
 
...(P.S. I'm still considering making it so that if enough units of great enough strength die to the Godslayer it can trigger the rise of Laroth. The limit would be rather high, so Auric's death would be practically a prerequisite. I might make The Draw a prereq too, and require that The Netherblade is still around. Laroth Ascended (which I'm thinking might instead go my the name Temulechus) will probably be a barbarian unit that is even stronger that Auric Ascended. Well, he would probably be personally weaker, but would arrive with an army (including any heroes that had fallen to the Netherblade, if I get those feats working) and so long as he is around all mortal units that die and don't become angels are manes will return under his control. He would still be vulnerable to the Godslayer, but not the Netherblade. Units killed by the Netherblade once he is around would go on to serve him even if they would have become angels or manes otherwise. When the new God of Death arrives, it is pretty much time to just give up.)

You might have some use for these, MC, as pop-ups to warn that Temeluchus' might be coming if the Netherblade keeps gathering victims, though I mostly wrote them for my own amusement. They're mostly variants on the same theme; everyone is seeing the same thing, through a different perspective.

Lowly mortal (all others)
Spoiler :
In a dream, you behold two men talking. One seems old, tired, slouching upon a throne as though the weight of the world is upon him, half-asleep. Despite this, you sense a great power within him. The power... of a god? The other, standing in front of him, looks just as old, though he seems to glow with a manic energy, a demented smile playing across his lips. “Arwan,” says the manic one, “your days are over! My ascension has already begun, and look at you! Too pathetic to stop me!” The manic one then spits upon the God of Death. Arwan ignores the insult, and says, “Laroth... you deluded fool.” “My name” the manic one says, “is Temeluchus. Laroth is dead!” Arwan sighs, then says, “do you understand the concept of godhood? Do you realize what it is, to be unable to change your own nature? Men can change so easily; something as small as belief can make them into something altogether different. But we gods are doomed, trapped. I would welcome oblivion, and grant the pain I must endure unto you.” Temeluchus smiles, and says, “my pleasure.” You wake up in a cold sweat, somehow knowing the ascension of the one called Temeluchus would almost certainly spell doom for your people.


Enlightened mortal (Cassiel, the Calabim leaders, Faeryl and Arendel, anyone else who would have known Laroth and isn't covered below)
Spoiler :
In a dream you behold Arwan, God of Death, slouching upon his throne, half-asleep, contemplating the agony forced upon him by his precept. Before him stands Laroth, old, but filled with manic energy, a demented smile playing across his lips. “Arwan,” says Laroth, “your days are over! My ascension has already begun, and look at you! Too pathetic to stop me!” Laroth then spits upon Arwan. Arwan ignores the insult, and says, “Laroth... you deluded fool.” “My name,” Laroth says, “is Temeluchus. Laroth is dead!” Arwan sighs, then says, “do you understand the concept of godhood? Do you realize what it is, to be unable to change your own nature? Men can change so easily; something as small as belief can make them into something altogether different. But we gods are doomed, trapped. I would welcome oblivion, and grant the pain I must endure unto you.” Laroth smiles, and says, “my pleasure.” You wake up in a cold sweat, realizing that if Laroth is allowed to ascend to godhood, it would almost certainly spell doom for you and your people.


Perpentach, Sheaim leaders
Spoiler :
In a dream you behold Arwan, God of Death, slouching upon his throne, half-asleep, contemplating the agony forced upon him by his precept. Before him stands Laroth, old, but filled with manic energy, a demented smile playing across his lips. “Arwan,” says Laroth, “your days are over! My ascension has already begun, and look at you! Too pathetic to stop me!” Laroth then spits upon Arwan. Arwan ignores the insult, and says, “Laroth... you deluded fool.” “My name,” Laroth says, “is Temeluchus. Laroth is dead!” Arwan sighs, then says, “do you understand the concept of godhood? Do you realize what it is, to be unable to change your own nature? Men can change so easily; something as small as belief can make them into something altogether different. But we gods are doomed, trapped. I would welcome oblivion, and grant the pain I must endure unto you.” Laroth smiles, and says, “my pleasure.” You awaken with a smile, and laughter echoes across your palace as you imagine the magnificent destruction Laroth could wreak if he were allowed to ascend to godhood. Your laughter ceases, however, when you remember what Laroth thought of you, and what sort of fate he probably has in store for you.


Hyborem
Spoiler :
You gaze into the inferno, seeking to speak with your master, Agares. But the flames seem different this day. When you cast the incantations, the flames glow a pale white, and they seem cold to the touch. An image forms in them, but it is not of Agares' domain. Instead, you see Arwan, God of Death, slouching upon his throne, feeling sorry for himself. Before him stands Laroth... you'd always been curious where he'd ended up. “Arwan,” says Laroth, “your days are over! My ascension has already begun, and look at you! Too pathetic to stop me!” Laroth then spits upon Arwan. Rather than crushing the little pest, Arwan ignores the insult, and says, “Laroth... you deluded fool.” “My name,” Laroth says, “is Temeluchus. Laroth is dead!” Arwan sighs, no then says, “do you understand the concept of godhood? Do you realize what it is, to be unable to change your own nature? Men can change so easily; something as small as belief can make them into something altogether different. But we gods are doomed, trapped. I would welcome oblivion, and grant the pain I must endure unto you.” Laroth smiles, and says, “my pleasure.” The flames sputter out and die, and you realize that even Hell itself might be unable to stand against a mortal who had stolen the power of the gods. For the first time in millennia, you taste fear.


Basium and Sabathiel
Spoiler :
As you meditate, your mind finds itself drawn towards the Netherworld. You behold Arwan, slouching upon his throne, wasting his existence, as he always has. But before him stands another... it takes you a moment to recognize him. Laroth. Your stomach churns as you see him, the greatest proof of Arawn's weakness. “Arwan,” he says, “your days are over! My ascension has already begun, and look at you! Too pathetic to stop me!” Laroth then spits upon Arwan. You cannot help but feel infuriated that a mortal would show such arrogance. But Arwan ignores the insult, and says, “Laroth... you deluded fool.” “My name,” Laroth says, “is Temeluchus. Laroth is dead!” Arwan sighs, no then says, “do you understand the concept of godhood? Do you realize what it is, to be unable to change your own nature? Men can change so easily; something as small as belief can make them into something altogether different. But we gods are doomed, trapped. I would welcome oblivion, and grant the pain I must endure unto you.” Laroth smiles, and says, “my pleasure.” As deep as your hatred for the forces of Hell is, you realize that Laroth taking the throne of Arwan would be far, far worse.


Falamar, maybe Hannah
Spoiler :
As the waves rock you to sleep, and the somewhat suspicious grog you'd just drank overcomes you, you dream. You behold two men talking. One, an old landlubber, seems tired, slouching upon a throne as though the weight of the world is upon him, half-asleep. Though he reminds you of a captain who should have retired a decade ago, you sense a great power within him. The power... of a god? The other, standing in front of him, looks just as old, though he seems both spry and as thoroughly drunk as yourself, with a demented smile playing across his lips. “Arwan,” says the manic one, “your days are over! My ascension has already begun, and look at you! Too pathetic to stop me!” The manic one then spits upon the God of Death. Arwan ignores the insult, and says, “Laroth... you deluded fool.” “My name” the drunken one says, “is Temeluchus. Laroth is dead!” Arwan sighs, then says, “do you understand the concept of godhood? Do you realize what it is, to be unable to change your own nature? Men can change so easily; something as small as belief can make them into something altogether different. But we gods are doomed, trapped. I would welcome oblivion, and grant the pain I must endure unto you.” Temeluchus smiles, and says, “my pleasure.” You wake up in a cold sweat, and take a moment to examine the bottle of grog by your bedside. “Old Goat.” You leave your cabin, toss the bottle overboard, and swear to never touch that particular stuff again.
 
This story is set after the Elohim and the Infernals have signed a peace treaty with one another. The Infernals have begun to make war on the Amurites, meanwhile Einon Logos suspects Infernal treachery and must rebuild his forces for the inevitable conflict to come.

Spoiler :

SANCTUARY

Joel awoke to the scent of honeysuckle and the ringing of bells. Somewhere on the verge of his hearing, the day gave birth to itself tenderly. Traders wheeled their barrows to the market square, guardsmen hoisted open the city gates and priests called the faithful to matins. Pausing for a moment to try and recapture the last fragments of a fading dream, Joel reluctantly opened his eyes ready to face the new dawn.

He felt awful. His neck was stiff and his arms and legs were leaden. His body throbbed and ached. The plush pillow, soft bed and warm blankets did nothing to alleviate his agony. His breath was short and difficult, scraping against the sides of his throat as he exhaled. A large bloody scar ran up the length of his left arm, and, as he attempted to examine it in closer detail, he heard an unpleasant crack from his ribs. His head rang as the bells pealed once more, and an unaccountable feeling of dread gripped him.

“Good morning.” The words were more than a greeting. The morning was good, or at least it was as far as the speaker was concerned.

“Who... Wha...” Sharp stabbing pains surged through his legs as he tried to turn and face her. Astonishment mingled with anguish, as he realised he was unable to move. Finally he spluttered out, “Who are you and what's going on?”

“My name is Ruth and I’m here to deliver your medicine. Now, careful there,” she told him. "You're lucky to be alive." Joel could not decide whether it was the warmth of her smile or the crisp tone of her voice which he noticed first.

Lost in the fug of a migraine, memories galloped into his mind with no respect for chronology. There had been a battle... or maybe there was going to be one. Saolo, his younger brother, was kissing a silver medallion for luck. When he was seven, he'd pushed him into the briar patch at the back of the garden. He had completely forgotten about it, until now, but now the pain of every nettle stung across his chest.

Ruth strode confidently across the room, her dress billowing fluidly, as if it were part of her. She drew back the curtains to reveal a vista of rooftops and sunshine. Red and yellow slopes formed a patchwork of roofs across the city. Here and there a courtyard, spire or tower would break up the pattern. Rock-pools and boulders in the shallows of the metropolis. Outside, people were going about their business in a calm, unhurried manner.

The sky was sapphire blue, daubed with the occasional lazy cumulus. Swallows and swifts darted acrobatically on the wing. Purples flowers clambered at the edge of the window, poking their heads into the infirmary with unbound enthusiasm. Joel let his gaze drift back to Ruth. She was beautiful, framed against the sunlight, her slender curves captured in silhouette. He could make out her shapely legs through her dress...

You don't really love her, you just love her body. He was seventeen again. Lysa was waving goodbye to him as he went to visit his grandfather. The previous evening, she'd held his hands, they'd kissed in the moonlight and she told him she would never love anyone as much she loved him. Two weeks later they had a blazing row, when he'd asked to kiss more than her lips. She had loved him, and he was a fool to have spurned her love.

Ruth drifted over to the bedside and pushed a spoonful of green mush into his mouth. Joel went to remove the spoon, but found that his arms refused to respond to his request. Tempted as he was to spit it out, he swallowed the paste. He could feel his physical pains easing away, but the medicine left behind a strong, bitter aftertaste of comfrey and lint.

...Rosemary, jasmine, mint... Magewort. The pedlar obviously didn't know what he had got. Of course, Joel could tell him how much the reageant was worth, but why should he? If this dumb yokel didn't appreciate what he had, that wasn't his fault. He handed over a few copper coins and thought about the profits to be made selling the herbs in Cevedes. He had did the right thing, hadn't he? It was a fair trade. It wasn't like he conned the man or anything... So why were his cheeks stained with embarrassment?

“Steady there,” said Ruth, her voice as soft as the zephyr. Her eyes took on a glassy sheen as she fed him another mouthful of the green mush. “Do you know where you are?”

“Last thing I remember...” He sucked in his breath as another shard of memory cut sharply into his mind.

The demons had them surrounded. The brass had pulled back their main body of troops and left a few poor unfortunate sods behind to slow the enemy down. Joel and Saolo were lucky to get out, but now the chase was over. In their panic, they’d strayed into Elohim lands, twisted hellspawn hot on their tails. Trapped against the cliff edge, they didn't have much choice. Diplomatic incident be damned, this was war. No, this was more than war, this was survival. Fight or flight...

“I'm sorry,” she said, “Truly, I am. You shouldn’t be here. I'm very sorry for you.” She was trying hard to suppress her tears. Something was very wrong.

Joel felt like weeping too. Phantasms of long forgotten follies haunted him, banshee wails of remorse that disrupted any string of cogent thought. Insubstantial yet ever-present, they conspired to drain the colour from the world, smothering every whisper in his mind with the taint of ashes. Desperate, like a drowning man, he tried to bolster himself with hope.

It was a glorious day. He'd fought against demons and lived to tell the tale. Overwhelming odds and he had survived them! Faced down death and live to fight another day. His grandfather would be so proud!

Where’s Saolo?!?

The idea crept in unbidden, leaving a trail of guilt in its wake. Tightness grasped his stomach. Lost in the pride of his glory, he had completely forgotten his brother. He gritted his teeth together but the tears and the memroies were already forming.

There was magic in the air, he could tell. His left hand tingled and he felt his heart thump. Tinny vapours roiled around in the air; raw mana could look like mercury to the arcane eye. Yet there was something different about this incantation. Something more potent than anything he had experienced. Something raw, holy, primal, almost transcendent, almost sacred.

He watched in amazement as the demons began howling. There had been no explosions. No holy words wracked them in hallowed fetters, no swords crashed against their iron hard skin, no angelic hordes swept froth from the clouds to save the day.

He saw a balor sobbing great tears of lava. An imp flagellated itself with barbed strips of lightning. Minor demons and devils were wailing, running hither and thither, clutching their heads and hearts, desperately flailing and fleeing from the Elohim lands in terror.

And then it rolled over him... The time he had cheated his best friend at cards, the thoughts that had never become words when his grandfather had chastised him for asking about the Forbidden Library, the endless hours wasted on wine and whisky, his callous disregard for the refugee beggars clogging the streets of Cevedes, his sharp tongue and quick temper, the resentment towards Saolo for stealing all his mother’s love. All minor sins in their own way; all unaccounted for. He had to get out. It didn’t matter where, just get out. Guilt swept on him, locusts of blame gnawing at his soul. He never saw Saolo on the precipice until it was too late...


Doubt cast its long shadow over him. New memories and old ones danced together. He wanted to scream, to kick and punch the wall until his fingers and toes bled raw. He wanted to howl like the demons had howled, open his mouth and let out a loud bawl of grief that would never end. It wasn’t his fault. It had never been his fault. Yes it was, he told himself, as the church bells struck once more, funereal peals for the gallows pole. Conflict raged in his mind, his every defensive protestation of innocence cast aside by the only judge fit to pass condemnation. Himself.

Ruth must have read his feelings. “Do you believe in the Heavens?” she asked.

The question pierced his self-pity. Just for a moment, the storm subsided and a ray of sunlight peaked through to illuminate the beacon of hope. “I... I guess so,” he answered, nervously, “I mean, I go to the temples and I always say my prayers on the Winter Solstice.”

“I didn't ask if you believed in religion. Any fool can believe in that. I asked if you believed in the Heavens, if you believe that your actions in this life will affect you in the next.”

“Doesn't everyone? I'm not perfect.” You can say that again, added an unwelcome critic from the back of his skull. “But who the hell is?”

“Do you know the difference between Heaven and Hell, Joel?”

“Of course I do. I've been out fighting against the forces of hell for the last five weeks, while you sit here and... what... discuss whether it would be morally right to break your treaty and come to our aid,” he sneered. “I thought you were meant to be a holy people. Guardians of the sacred places and all that guff. Well you aren't doing a very good job, guardian! Erebus is going to hell and you've barely lifted a finger to stop it. Hypocrites! Hypocrites, the lot of you!”

“That's not a difference, Joel.”

“Fine,” he snapped at her and then instantly regretted doing so. “What is the difference between heaven and hell?”

“We are.”

The songbirds sang sweetly in the trees, emphasising the gulf that lay between them.

“Imagine a place of such perfection, that anything less than perfect wouldn’t fit. All around is harmony. A sinner in that world would be in discord. A man in such a world would feel constantly dirty, overwhelmed with filth and muck. Even his pettiest crimes would smell like the dung of a hundred horses. He’d know that he couldn’t wash away a lifetime of transgressions with just a few half-hearted words and mealy-mouthed prayers.”

“How do you manage?”

“We live this life as if it were our next. We focus on everything that is good in Erebus, all that makes for better times. In short, we love,” she said simply. “The love of a husband for his wife, love between friends who enjoy one another’s companionship, love borne of sacrifice that keeps no score of wrongdoing, the innocence of a child in love with life itself. We cannot manage it forever, maybe just a season or two, but for a short time, if we truly believe and behave as if this world were the world to come, we can draw some of that purity into Erebus. We will shine a candle light for the darkness to come and share love for a world unloved.”

“And this is your answer, is it? Love.”

“No, Joel,” she said as she left the chamber, “Love is the answer.”

“Don’t leave me, Ruth,” he cried after her. “I don’t feel half so bad when you’re around.” But Ruth was gone and he was alone.

Held in place by his pillow, he could see heaven. Across the city, the laughter of children echoed throughout the streets and a thousand husbands kissed their wives as softly and as passionately as they had in their first embrace. The sun wreathed the day in glorious light, swallows congregated on the roof of church, and bees gathered nectar from the Bougainvillea, outside of the tall, tall window.
 
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