Random Stories and Fragments

[Diamondeye]

The story of Donuin

Spoiler Part I :

"Look, I don't care if it's not safe, I'm leaving! I am not staying one more minute in this city, with all those madmen rambling in the streets. Not even the threat of the Sheaim will keep me here! Have you seen what the Overlords have done to the magnificence that was Vallus? The Mayor is now effectively not doing anything to control crime because he had a mage put him to eternal sleep to have a greater chance of recieving visions from those slimy squids!"

"Quiet! Don't let them hear you yell like that," his mother interrupted. She was almost fifty years, and Donuin could see the agony in her face. She knew he was leaving the city for good and that she might never see her only son again.

"All I am asking you to do is to be careful. If it is your wish, go ahead and leave Vallus, and join the soldiers on the front. Just don't get yourself hanged by a sharp-eared cultist on the way out. That way, you'll do no good," she said. Donuin stopped his gripe and bowed down a bit to hug his mother, careful not to be too harsh on her, being clad in armor and all. He felt her chest shaking as the tears finally loosened themselves, and a low, shaking voice escaped her. He had never heard his mother this scared before.

"Just... Take care. You are my only son. Promise me to return home once the Sheaim have been defeated."

"I promise," Donuin said, then added in a whisper. "Don't worry, mother. Junil will watch over me."

He freed himself from the cramped embrace of his mother and exited out on the streets, walking quickly towards the northern gate. On his way he heard one of the local madmen on the pavement yelling after him: "You there! The Overlords have only pity left towards such arrogant fools as yourself! They tell me you will be the victim of your arrogance and the arroganace of your god! And stay away from the basket!"

Donuin rolled his eyes as he marched on. "Stay away from the basket"? He wondered how anyone could take the Cult serious. As he exited the gate and neared the Field of the Crusaders, where the army was recruiting, he reached for his necklace and caressed the small silver jewel that he had recieved from his former general, the great commander and paladin Justus Firebane. Junil would watch over him.

Spoiler Part 2 :

Donuin quickly fell back into the routines of march once the army was on the move. He shared tent with five others. The Bannor army was very organized. The six men in his tent were coupled in three pairs, and every night they would stand guard in those pairs, swapping so that all six soldiers got some sleep. A regiment would consist of one hundred tens, and have ten officers, each commanding ten tents men. The most senior of these ten officers would be the leader of the regiment.

Donuin was paired with Jikan, a young recruit just between man and boy. His eighteen years made Donuin's own twenty-four seem like much more. The young Jikan still had some of that young audacity that Donuin's first service had pummeled out of him. After you saw true war, you were never the same. Donuin made sure to get close to the young man so that Jikan had someone to talk to once he felt war as it truly was encroaching on them.

Four regiments, or 2.400 soldiers, were marching in a coloumn, six man wide, through the Hygia woods, close to the border between Bannor and Sheaim lands.

The woods had once been the home to the Ljosalfar, the Summer Elves, but as the Sheaim had brought their foulness and diseases with them, the elves had simply left the area. The Bannor had secured it to deny the Sheaim access to the core of the empire. The forests had remained largely untouched by the minor villages and guardposts the people of Capria had established. Donuin imagined how this part of the forest would look if you flew above it like an angel... A mess of trees with straight roads cut into it like wounds or veins.

Jikan came up to him as they stopped to make camp - a hard task in a wood, hence the workers who had built the roads had made clearings every twenty-fifth mile - and asked: "So, uhm, Don, I was wondering... Uhm..."
Donuin looked up at the young man: "Yes, what is it?"
The young man looked nerveous: "Say, how... How does it feel to.. Uhm, kill someone? I mean, you've tried it before, I know, yeah, uhm, how is it?"

Donuin looked impressed at the young man. Most new recruits were too afraid to face the fact that they would soon have the blood of strangers all over them. Most of them threw up after the first battle. He looked seriously at Jikan. "It's horrible. But as long as the act is justified, you'll handle it just fine. Besides, we are fighting the Sheaim. Have you ever seen their soldiers?"

The young man looked perplexed and out of balance. He had probably expected a less direct answer. "No, Don, never... But I've heard stories of them... Is it true that they are, well... Walking dead?"
The young man looked truly sick as Donuin nodded.
"Believe me, once you see them, you won't have a problem with killing them. They are the wretched spawn of Agares himself, and their current fate is far worse than that of dying and being burnt upon a pyre."
The young man sank and looked scared. After a while he stammered: "Don, let us take the first watch. I am not going to sleep anyway."
Donuin nodded and got up and found their torches.

Spoiler Part 3 :

... As they finally exited the forests, the taint of the Sheaim was obvious; the land around them looked barren and somehow lifeless, and a faint stench of sulfur and ashes were in the air. The earth itself was greyish and the only plants that grew there was razorgrass, knee-tall blades of spiky metal plants. Donuin praised their solid, metal-clad leather boots for protecting their feet against the shrapnel-like vegetation. A barefooted man would have his flesh ripped from his feet in a few minutes here.

Ahead of them was the small Sheaim village of Skadistad. They could make out it's black silhouette in the distance. Donuin looked at Jikan, who was nerveous, yet eager, to face his first enemies over crossed blades.

As evening came they stopped their march and started to make camp, they knew that they would reach the village the next day. Having a free afternoon, Donuin and Jikan laid down and stared into the sky. "Do you know any of the constellations, Don?", Jikan asked. Donuin shook his head. He had never really had the time or interest to learn the secrets of the skies. Jikan continued. "I do. I had a grandmother who was a mage. She taught me them all when I was a small boy. She also tried to convince my parents to send me to a mage guild, but my parents had their pride to think of and sent me to the front instead."

Donuin nodded and pointed at a strange constellation in the sky that seemed fleeting and shapeless. "What constellation is that, then?" Jikan looked in the direction Donuin was pointing and narrowed his eyes for a moment. "That is the Jeweled Mask, the symbol of Esus, the god of secrets." Donuin looked impressed at the young man. "What significance does it hold?""Well, Don, the appearance of the Mask often means that something is not what it seems like; the sign of an underlying and unknown plan."

Donuin yawned and asked sleepily: "What does that have to do with us?"
"Well, we should keep an eye open during the attack tomorrow. The Sheaim might have a nasty surprise up the sleeve for us."
Jikan looked down at Donuin who was already fast asleep before shrugging and closing his own eyes. He should perhaps have told Don of the other constellation on the sky that night, the Black Candle.

Spoiler Part 4 :

Donuin lept back as the burning zombie in front of him exploded in a massive burst of flames. He saw several of his comrades partially engulfed in the pyre, but had no time to check whether they were okay. A club hammered down on his right leg and he fell to the ground as it collapsed. With an extreme effort, he cut across the chest of the attacker, another pyre zombie, before falling flat on the ground. The explosion blinded him as it devoured the air above him greedily. He felt the heat from it, but remained almost unscathed. He crawled towards the others, his right leg still lolling behind him. He looked back at the sheaim forces. There were still many of them. Then he caught sight of Jikan, pressed against the palisade by several attackers. His armour has burns in several places, and he was sweating. Donuin got up and halted towards the boy, motioning for his comrades to follow. Only a few dared to.

He arrived just in time. Jikan looked exhausted and was about to be overpowered by the brute force in the blows of the zombies. Donuin and his comrades quickly cut down the zombies and pushed them away, narrowly evading the bursts of fire emanating from the lifeless bodies. Jikan looked up at them. "Th-thanks, Don", he stammered, before gathering himself again. The zombies were slowly being defeated as the soldiers learnt to adjust to the unnerving blasts that escaped the falling sheaim soldiers. Jikan dragged Donuin and the two other soldiers behind the zombies and into the city, while whispering.

"They are so many! Something is wrong here, they should only be perhaps a quarter of our force, instead they seem to keep coming. I think we should fight our way towards the center of the town."

The others nodded in agreement. If they could somehow stop the trickle of zombies, they would save dozens of lives. Compared to that, the four of them meant little. They sneaked through the streets, which seemed strangely deserted. Donuin assumed that the sheaim civilians was scared. He had no idea how wrong that assumption was.

As they caught sight of the city square, they suddenly realized where the zombies came from - and where the civilians had gone. In the middle of the square, a giant pyre was built, and the fire was constantly fed with wood dragged from nearby houses - but that was not the scary part - the scary part was the line of civilians that were, one after another, thrown onto the pyre. From what they could see, the line was administered by three men, draped in black capes with the red Veil marked on them. Besides the pyre stood another of these Ashen Guards, along with a man dressed in a black robe. It did not carry the Veil mark, instead, this looked like it was tatooed onto the bald back of the mans head. He was reading over the ceremony from a large, black grimoire, and the four soldiers could almost feel the power emanating from the man. He even seemed to have a certain red halo, but that was probably just imagination.

The four soldiers looked at each other. They all knew they had to kill the Profane, but they had no idea how. None of them carried any throwing weapons or bows, and the black-draped guards looked well-trained. Eventually, they decided. Charging the man seemed the best option - if nothing else, they would disrupt the ritual, allowing the other soldiers to close in on the pyre.

 

[Diamondeye]

Currently playing/writing "The Elegy of the Sheaim"

 

[Kael]

Gibbon Goetia

Spoiler :

How many roles have I played? They blur together in my mind.

I was a victim from the moment my life began. An attacker came for my mother even as she gave birth to me. He possessed Garrus, a simple stable boy and used him to sneak up through the inn to my parents room. He tried to get close to my mother, to attack her at her most vulnerable. My father fought to stop him. The details are unknown except that a battle occurred in the room and my father was struck a mortal blow. With his last breath he uttered a holy word that destroyed the spirit possessing Garrus and collapsed the entire inn.

My mother died in the collapse, my father died from the attack. The stable boy was pulled from the rubble, one arm was crushed but he appeared otherwise healthy. My soul fled the dying infants form and took home in his newly evacuated body. I was born into the body of a teenage boy.

The innkeeper raised me, teaching me as if I had simply forgotten my life and in a few years I served him well. He raised me as he rebuilt the inn. But I always knew that Garrus wasn’t my name and I listened intently when those that survived the collapse retold the story.

We didn’t know much about my parents. But my father wore the yellow robes of a priest of the Empyrean. There was a small temple to the god in our city and when I was ready I joined their ranks as a disciple. Within the clergy my identity didn’t matter, I was simply a child of Lugus. My superiors praised my empathy, questioned my maturity and laughed when I said that I thought I was the son of a priest. They claimed no such priest had visited the city and considered my thoughts the wishful thoughts of boy with too much imagination.

My right arm was still crushed, by this point it was shriveled and permanently wrapped against my side. When I asked if it could be healed the priests prayed over it, but it never got better. Others came and received healing, nobles, merchants, beggars, soldiers. But I remained maimed.

One day in early Aedrini the temple was in an uproar. Priests barked orders, disciples scurried about trying to look busy, no one had thought to wake me. After many questions a priest finally gave me my answer.

“Luridus Chalid is coming child, stay out of the way.”

I began to retreat to my chamber when he yelled after me, “And don’t bother him when he arrives!”

That next day a single man arrived on a dappled grey mare. He rode without an escort and though he needed no guards on the road, he could have used some outside of the temple. He was immediately mobbed by well meaning disciples, genuflecting priests and hordes of gawking townspeople. He wore the robes of a Luridus and I wondered if my father wore the same.

He spent the next three days in our hastily constructed council chamber. The chamber was open for anyone to hear the deliberation and speak in an orderly manner. They discussed the towns role in the Overcouncil, local legislation and a problem with brigands in the area.

The council meetings always went well into the night, and Chalid attended every dawn ceremony. He only had a few hours between to get some sleep. I was hurrying to the dawn service one morning when I found him standing alone in the refectory looking out the windows toward the east. The morning bell rung, signaling the dawn ceremony was about to start and Chalid turned to find me staring at him.

“Morning disciple, are you ready to receive our lords blessing?”

I managed to stammer something unintelligible out. Despite that he smiled at me with true affection and clasp me on the shoulder. That was the first he noticed my withered arm.

“Do you have something to ask me?” he said.

He expected me to ask for healing, but that didn’t matter to me. Instead I asked, “What sort of spirit attacked my mother?”

He put his arm around me and we walked to the sanctuary together.

“Let me pray about it” he said.

The service was exactly like all the others but I paid little attention. Instead I watched Chalid. He looked confused as he prayed, sometimes pained, sometimes resigned and I imagined that it had something to do with my question.

I waited after the service. Chalid spoke briefly with the vicar who had performed the service and meet a few of the members. And then he left the sanctuary and went into the council chambers.

I spent the day neglecting my duties and waiting outside the council chamber. But just past nightfall the towns warning bells rang out, guards ran through the streets yelling that brigands were attacking.

Everyone flooded out of the temple. At the edge of the town shapes rushed through the darkness. Black tipped arrows cut guards down where they writhed screaming in pain. Guards brought torches and under the cover of shield men they retook the fortifications while the shadows simply moved to attack at another point.

A voice from the darkness called, “What good is a god that abandons you every night?”

Chalid ignored the taunt and ordered the men back within the cities lantern light. He alone bounded over the wall and in to the darkness at the cities edge. His mace glowed faintly in the starlight and though we couldn’t see any attackers on the open field we all knew they were moving in on him.

Chalid prayed and an aura of golden fire burst up around his head and dark men caught fire on the field, on the walls, and even a few that had snuck into the city. The holy fire consumed them and guards rushed in to beat or capture the men.

But one was not distracted by the fire. It clung to his black armor and that of his steed but he rode soundlessly towards Chalid, like a shadow of a dark god stretching out to touch him. Chalid raised his mace up, and then back down and the field was lit up as if it was day. A pillar of golden fire, like the sun itself but full of righteous fury, crushed the rider. There was a horrific scream and then when the pillar retreated back up into the sky the rider was gone.

I spent the night tending to the guardsmen wounded in the attack. Their wounds festered from poison and the men passed between fevered dreams and anguish when awake. There was little I could do but try to keep their wounds clean and try to make them comfortable. Chalid and the priests prayed over the men and some were healed, but too many were injured.

That next morning I returned to my chambers to wash up and change into fresh clothes, as did most of the temple. I headed again to the dawn ceremony and found Chalid alone again in the refectory looking out towards the east.

“You saved the town.” It sounded hollow when I said it. Unsuited to the miracle I had witnessed.

“I only had faith that Lugus would protect me, he did everything else.”

I smiled, the warmth Chalid had shared with me yesterday was gone now. He looked troubled but I assumed it was just the events of the long night. I know he hadn’t slept either.

“Did you find out anything about my mother?”

Chalid looked at the floor, the morning bells rang though neither of us moved.

“I should lie to you” Chalid said, “the mandate of truth is sometimes painful. I am sorry. I won’t lie but I will warn you, it would be better if you did not know.”

“I want to know” I argued with more passion than I intended, “Knowledge, truth, revelation are the precepts of Lugus. I should know my own past.”

“The woman’s name was Magda de’Vala” Chalid started, “The man wasn’t her husband but her guardian, though he was a priest of the Empyrean. The child was prophesied to be a great hero, which is why many sought to kill Magda and her baby.”

He paused, but I only waited for him to continue.

“The stable boy Garrus died three days before the attack. That which killed Garras, that which killed Magda’s guardian and caused the collapse that killed Magda and her baby. That was you.”

I was furious and I rushed out of the refectory. Chalid watched me go then headed into the sanctuary. My thoughts went back to those early days, I never felt like I was the stable boy. And for the first time I questioned my origin. Would a babies spirit in a boy’s body be able to adapt that quickly? Could even a possessed stable boy be able to overcome a priest of Lugus, or was that creature something darker? And was I that creature?

I stopped in the temples infirmary. Except for the wounded it was empty, everyone in the temple was in the dawn ceremony despite those laying here near death. There was only one man awake, a bandage covered his left thigh. I knelt at his bedside. When I saw the torment he was in I forgot a bit of my own.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Abin,” he said, “I’m a jeweler who pretended to be a city guard.”

That wasn’t unusual. Our city was too small to maintain full time guardsmen so most were volunteers with other jobs.

“Either you are too good at pretending, or not good enough.”

He gave me a weak smile.

“Can I pray for you?” I asked. He nodded.

I placed my hand on him and closed my eyes. I have seen many healed but I had never performed a miracle myself. If I could do this, if I could heal this man and channel the power of Lugus then I couldn’t be whatever creature Chalid thought I was. Maybe I was the holy child, maybe the attack on Magda de’Vala failed.

I could feel his labored breath. I could feel his pain, feel his love for his large family of nieces and nephews. His quiet store and hours spent working on small intricate jewelry. And I felt him die.

Then I felt the poison strike, it burnt through my body focused on the wound in my left thigh. I stepped away from the bed in shock. I was taller and my robes, which were big on me, were now tight. And my formerly withered arm was now trapped uncomfortably in its folds.

I loosened the robe and held out my full, strong arm. But it didn’t look like my arm, it was the jewelers arm. And as I looked at myself I realized that I was identical to the dead body of the jeweler that lay in the bed in front of me. And then the poison struck again and sent me to my knees. I picked myself up and fled the temple in pain and confusion.

Pain will drive you mad and it only took a few hours of suffering like this before I found a farmer out working in his field.

“Blind goats Abin!” he said, “what is wrong with you? Why are you wearing a disciples robes?”

I threw him to the ground and held him, smashing him once in the face when he tried to fight back. I felt for that closeness, I reached out to find everything that he was, and the pain drifted away. When I opened my eyes I saw him staring up at his own reflection in horror. The last I saw him he was running toward his farmhouse, I started running as well. I don’t think I have ever stopped.


I still don’t know what I am. All the roles that I’ve played since then blur together in my mind. I’ve gotten better at reading people and worked for a time for an assassins guild, simply for reading people I touch. During other times I steal the lives of those I wish to share. I tried the lavish extravagance of princes and wealthy merchants, but there is little to envy them for once you understand how they truly live. The best stolen lives come from the simple fathers of large families, those that have the love and respect of everyone in their lives. Dump the body of one of those in a shallow grave and I have a few good weeks of fun before I become bored and move on to something else.

Maybe Chalid was right, maybe I am a monster.

 

[Nikis-Knight]

That's cool. The first person pov made me think that maybe he was telling the story to someone, perhaps a confessor about to recoil in shock, or a sympathetic princess heir to a powerful nation. Either way, someone about to get it to set up the next scheme or adventure.

 

[thewyrm]

Kael gracing this thread with stories kicks all sorts of ass.

 

[Kael]

Tebryn Arbandi

Spoiler :

The Age of Ice was a paradise compared to what I endured. As men huddled in frozen caves, and the Bannor raced across the plains of ash in Agares hell I was held underneath the fractured surface of Camulos’s hell.

Camulos is the god of war, and his hell is the proving ground for new demons. Here they learn the arts of chaotic battle in the unending wars that rage across its surface. The souls, once moral, become desensitized to feeling and inflicting pain. Then they begin to delight in it, cruelly destroying anyone weaker than them across the volcanic terrain.

Beneath the wars, in pits regularly opened or consumed by the violent earthquakes that shake the world, are the vast prisons where the victims of war are kept. I had suffered through the mire of Mulcarn, passed the trials of Mammon’s great city but I was a quick victim to violence of this realm.

Torturers usually want something from their victims, secrets, cooperation or conversion. But here they subjected us to anguish only to enjoy our suffering. And in a world without the escape of death, there was no hope of an end to the torment. You bleed and scream for centuries.

The eruptions occasionally open new tunnels in the prisons, collapsing walls allow the imprisoned to flee to the world’s surface and escape their torment for a time.

After one of these I fled into wastes, where the sand cut through exposed flesh like small shards of glass. I huddled beneath the hide of a pit beast and gripped one of the back spikes from the beast as a crude weapon. My magic failed me in hell. I traced a rune in the sand, a fire sign with broken bindings and willed it alive. A faint flame flickered within it. When I was alive I could have summoned torrents of fire out of the rune, I could have assaulted a city with it. Now it only flickered weakly.

Howls interrupted my concentration. Demons avoided battles in the wastes, but hunters lead by hellhounds would come through looking for those, like myself, that sought refuge here. I brushed away the rune and started deeper into the wastes.

By they were faster than I was and the hound could smell me. They didn’t follow scent like moral dogs, they could smell fear and there was no escaping them. As I scrambled across another ridge a darkened figure rushed at me, spear in hand. He was emaciated, weak, and I easily knocked the spear aside.

I pulled the man to the ground, he was trembling, and whispered into his ear.

“You will be okay” I lied, “I won’t hurt you, but we have to kill the hound that is coming for us.”

He didn’t speak, but his eyes stared into my face, trying to find some compassion. It was a rare commodity in this world.

“Hide under the ridge.”I ordered, pushing him into position. “When the hound comes be ready with your spear and we will attack it together.”

He hid under the ridge and I slipped away. A few minutes later the hound stopped howling, it was close.

The hound was drawn to the figures fear as I had suspected. I watched as it walked up to the top of the ridge and stopped to sniff and listen. Even I could sense the man’s fear, I knew it was like a beacon to the hound. In one smooth movement the hound leapt off the ridge and in front of the man, he called for my help as he braced his spear.

I ignored him as the hound attacked, tearing quickly into the man. I wasn’t interested in the hound or the man. I waited until I saw him. A black figure wreathed in violet flames, the hunter following after the hound. As he passed I leapt out, shoving the spike into the hunters neck.

The sound he made was a mix of pleasure and pain, the scream of a sadist in the ecstasy of mutilation. He was stronger than I suspected, and the spike jutting from his neck didn’t slow him at all. He lifted one arm and tossed me aside. I rolled and came to my feet to see him ready for his next attack. The hound dragged the body of the man back towards us, and the deep red eyes of the rest of the hellhound pack came out of the wastes. There was at least a dozen of them. The hunter didn’t bother removing the spike from his neck.

A crow passed over us. Seeing it in hell was as unusual as seeing a demon flying by in Erebus. But the effect on the hunter and his hounds was immediate. They fled in all directions, even leaving the prize of the wizened man behind.

The crow landed. It was large for a crow but not unnaturally so. It clawed at the ground and hopped about ignoring me. I had lost the spike and without any sort of weapon I knew I was helpless. Remembering the man’s spear I started to slip by, to avoid the crow and get to base of the ridge where the hellhound and the man fought.

Then I noticed what the crow had scratched. It was a fire rune with broken bindings. The crow looked at me for the first time.

It was exactly like the rune I had made, perfectly formed. I walked closer and the crow crooked its head watching me. I took a breath and reached out to the rune and I immediately felt the power well up inside of me. Balefire flooded out of the rune in great wild gouts. It flowed out between the hills of the wastes, down along the ridge and all around me. At the rune itself it reached up like a fountain of yellow fire, a bright finger reaching into the sky.

This was the power I once had. Let the hunters come, let them bring their packs of hellhounds, the torturers and the war machines of hell. I will purge this horrific world.

The crow was gone. In its place, floating weightless just above the ground was a beautiful woman wearing purple robes. The robes floated about her in a maze of folds that hid her and offered tantalizing glimpses of her perfect pale skin. Half of an obsidian mask covered the left side of her face. On the right her lips were full and red, her eyes matched the deep purple of her robes.

“To long have you dwelled in these lands.”

The fire collapsed back into the rune. I felt the power slip from me and I gasped and fell to my knees in an effort to keep hold of it. But it was pulled from me and I was weak again. I screamed, it was as cruel as anything I had suffered here.

“Give it back.” I threatened, realizing that I didn’t have a weapon.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Her body twisted and she expanded, or the world shrank, until she filled the sky and her robes surrounded me.

“I am Ceridwen” she said and the ground rumbled with her voice, “and I can drop you into worlds far worse than this one. If you wish to be free you will worship me, for I am the only one who can break your chains.”

And I fell to the ground and worshipped her.



I had forgotten how beautiful creation was, or I had paid little attention. The island I walked across was ripe and lush. There were no land animals on it, just brightly colored birds that cried and fluttered away in annoyance as I walked by.

A vast well stood at the center of the island. Far enough across that a galleon could have been dropped down it and it was deeper than the world. The rocks around it appeared to be old granite, but I knew that rock was the foundation of creation and was much stronger than simple granite. There were no animals here.

I began walking around the well. Every few feet I stopped to trace a rune on the rock. Though it seemed a minor effect, and I was more powerful than I had ever been in life, it took all of my willpower to mar the rock. Between runes I rested and went over Ceridwen’s demands, making sure each step was done exactly as she described.

By the time I had walked the entire way around it was well into the night. I stood on the last rock ready to trace the final rune. But before that I drew silver letters on a black cloth, cast and then placed the cloth over my eyes. Through it I saw the spirit world. Even now spirits of the dead walked across the island and threw themselves into the well, passing from this world to the world beyond.

Then I completed the final rune. In a screeching that brought back painful memories of Camulos’s hell the rock began to move together. The well began to close.

Confused spirits rushed toward the well, seeing their afterlife being stolen from them and from within the well I heard the sound of feathers. A cold wind came up out of the well and I saw a figure flying up at me from the wells depths. A woman with a cloth over her eyes much as mine, and ragged bands woven around her arms and into a tattered dress. She had dark wings and pale ivory skin. She was like moonlight filtered through a canopy of branches.

But she was not fast enough. I reached out and pulled all of the surrounding spirits towards me, funneling them all into the final rune that was being sketched over the closing rocks surface. A barrier held fast, a great mirror that would send those who tried to pass through it back, a transformation that would bind the spirits that passed through it into unholy forms.

The spirits powered the rune, they were trapped within it. They howled and fought the rune but they could not escape.

To test the spell I walked to a nearby apple tree, since the birds didn’t come this close to the well its fruit was untouched. But it was early in the year and it only had tiny green apples hanging from its branches.

I traced a rune of withering on its trunk and the tree immediately shriveled and died. The tiny apples fell from the branches as the branches thinned and weakened. For a moment nothing happened, and then the tree filled out again. Not to its original height, as it remained dark and warped by the spell, but it was not completely dead. On its branches new small fruit blossomed, but this time they were a deep brownish red and they beat slowly.

My mission had begun. My deal with Ceridwen, to bring Armageddon to creation starts here. If I fail I will return to the eternal prison of hell, and even if it means destroying the world I will never again suffer hells torments.

 

[Monkeyfinger]

I seem to recall in Tebryn's original story that hyborem personally broke him for centuries, and that Tebryn wants to open up a keg of whoopass on him specifically. That's retconned out, then?

 

[MagisterCultuum]

The way I remember it Tebryn's soul was collected and taken to hell by Hyborem personally. I don't think it explicitly said that Hyborme was involved in his torture.

 

[Verdian]

So it is impossible for spirits to pass on? And I am a bit confused, is what happened to the tree a result of some greater spell, or a result of the well being sealed? Can nothing die now, or is that the explanation for Hell Terrain?

 

[Thunder_Gr]

The way I understand it, it is how the spell transforms any living being into a twisted form of itself, not dead, but not naturaly alive. It is the explanation for hell terrain, and what it is, I think.

 

[Kael]

The way I remember it Tebryn's soul was collected and taken to hell by Hyborem personally. I don't think it explicitly said that Hyborme was involved in his torture.

This is correct (as if you need me to say that about MC's posts).

So it is impossible for spirits to pass on? And I am a bit confused, is what happened to the tree a result of some greater spell, or a result of the well being sealed? Can nothing die now, or is that the explanation for Hell Terrain?

In that area, yes.

 

[Seon]

The female angel that tried to get out of the well is Arawn's archangel, right? So it is now impossible for spirits to go to Arawn's vault? Or is there a another way to get in

 

[Kael]

The female angel that tried to get out of the well is Arawn's archangel, right? So it is now impossible for spirits to go to Arawn's vault? Or is there a another way to get in

Yeap, that was Gyra, Basium's sister.

And closing that well only effected that region and cause the creation of the dead lands. It didnt effect the entire world.

 

[Verdian]

Does that mean there are multiple wells scattered about creation for souls to go to? That idea appeals to me: ancient structures that are beyond the kenning of mortals.

 

[kenkrajen]

absolutely awesome. kael, please write a book.

 

[kenkrajen]

i have a random question for the random thread: what is Mana in FFH? is it a crystal, or some kind of nexus of magical energy? i always imagined it as a giant crystal enchanted to connect to a plane and produce a specific type of mana. how close am i to the original concepts?

 

[Kael]

From AoI:

He would have been killed, but he already looked dead. He was obviously Doviello, covered in the hides of various animals and stood nearly a foot taller than any of the Amurites. He lumbered through the fortifications, ignored warnings and would have been shot down there had Kylorin not raised a hand to stop the archers.

He had been attacked by something in the wild, but those weren't the wounds that were killing him. Far more fierce is the cold and even his thick furs couldn't protect him from it. He moved as one whose extremities were eaten by frostbite.

He fell before Kylorin. Looking up he seemed at once relieved to have made it and distraught that this was so much less than he imagined.

"I am Seterim, once a clan lord and champion among the Doviello. But I have abandoned them, come to offer my strength to you, to rage against the White Hand instead of merely living off of their scraps. I have seen enough of winter and death, and heard the stories you tell of a time before the storms. I wish to fight for a return to that time."

At this Seterim sobbed openly.

"But I have nothing to give, I have already failed. The blizzards set upon me, stole the strength that I meant to give to you. Mulcarn punishes those that betray him and in my hubris I somehow believed I was different."

Kylorin listened to the man's tale. He was a good father to the Amurites, but more calculating than compassionate at moments like these. He didn't offer the broken man comfort or empty consolation, only a question.

"How did you survive the blizzards at all?"

Seterim thought. The past few days had become clouded in his memory, the desire to reach Kylorin was his only consistent thought. Then he held out his hand and opened it to reveal fingers that were untouched by frostbite and a glowing red crystal inside.

"I found this in the wastes, it is warm and held the chill away enough to keep me alive. Will it help you? I gladly offer it to you if it would help."

Seterim was excited by the thought of his trip, his sacrifice, somehow being of use. That he hadn't forfeited his life for nothing.

Kylorin took the crystal and turned it over in his hand.

"It's a mana crystal. Long ago thick veins of these were changed by mages into various forms. This used to be a part of a fire node, probably shattered by the fall of the Queen of Fire. Yes, this will be very useful. But useful to you and not me."

At that Kylorin chanted, it was obvious to everyone that he was not of this age. He was tall and regal among men who were little more than savages, sharp of mind and body where humanity had fallen lax. The Amurites would have worshipped him as a god had he allowed it. He seemed capable of things they didn't even understand.

At his words the crystal floated and burst into flames. The crystal darkened until it seemed the dark center of the fire writhed within it. Long asleep the crystal looked like a beast once beautiful, now fallen to ruin. The beast twitched and screamed, sending the crystal shooting out of Kylorin's control and into the snow.

No one was more terrified by the sight than Seterim. Kylorin went over and picked up crystal, it had reverted to its red form but the fire remained around it. He then walked back to Seterim.

"Give me your sword."

Seterim did so without question. Kylorin spoke a prayer to Nantosuelta and the crystal melted into the hilt of Seterim's sword. For a second the sword itself seemed to burn, and then it cooled back to it original form.

"Keep this crystal with you and it will give you strength in battle and empower you against the enemies arrayed against us. The life that you knew is over. Seterim died on those frozen wastes. You are Belenus now. Rest here and you will grow strong. Your strength will be needed soon."

With that Kylorin gave him the imbued sword and Belenus was born.

I think thats the best pedia information we have on what mana is.

 

[MagisterCultuum]

I prefer to think of mana as not so much a physical object as a source of an aspect of creation. I would say that Mana is a source of an element in a (at least nearly) pure form, which would often but not necessarily always mean that the element would crystallize. A strong enough mage could probably channel the elements from more diffuse sources, but the Erebusian equivalent of the Second Law of Thermodynamics is always in effect. While it is possible to concentrate an element in a local area, it would lead to a greater diffusion of the elements in general. You can't just force an element from an area of low concentration to high concentration of said element. A mana crystal would have a higher concentration than any target area, to channeling the power of the element become much easier with access to a mana crystal.


A crystal connected to a plane of pure elements would be one of the gems of creation, not a common mana source. Unlike the gods, man cannot reach out to other planes to channel mana from them, at least not without help. To us, the world is a closed system. The gods however have in themselves a connection to a great well of their own pure element, so with divine intervention the system can be made open. A mortal possessing one of them gems of creation would have access to an infinite plane, and so could channel that element as well as a god could (at least with practice, and some innate skill).

 

[Darksaber1]

I prefer to think of mana as not so much a physical object as a source of an aspect of creation. I would say that Mana is a source of an element in a (at least nearly) pure form, which would often but not necessarily always mean that the element would crystallize. A strong enough mage could probably channel the elements from more diffuse sources, but the Erebusian equivalent of the Second Law of Thermodynamics is always in effect. While it is possible to concentrate an element in a local area, it would lead to a greater diffusion of the elements in general. You can't just force an element from an area of low concentration to high concentration of said element. A mana crystal would have a higher concentration than any target area, to channeling the power of the element become much easier with access to a mana crystal.

I tend to think much along the same lines, with mana-nodes being tended by specialist mages that extract mana crystal from the nodes. Raw mana crystal would be expesive, and some (fire) quite volatile, with cheeper (and less powerful) "surragete" crystal avalable, or even special rune based objects having magic charge.

 

[thomas.berubeg]

The Succession

Chapter 1: Setting the Stage.

Dain Kylorskin knew something had to be done. Though in ages past, the Noble’s council had served the Magus well, giving good advice, they were now overstepping their bounds and duties. They seeked to imposed their own will on him, the magus himself, appointed by blood and the gods themselves. They would have to go… and they would have to quickly and quietly, and secretly. He needed a proper excuse for disposing of the council. They were far too powerful to just be disbanded at word of the magus.

Not two months past, a woman had been arrested in Nimirail, accused of dabbling in the dark arts and of worshipping the abomination that was Hellboy. The Shield of Kylorin had promptly arrested her and she had since been rotting in the prisons of Cevedes. All who had interrogated her concurred that she was beyond any shadow of a doubt nothing but a poor little old woman, a bit too fond of her cats for her neighbors to abide. Yet a major controversy had arisen over her captivity. The Council clamored for her blood, as a way to keep the masses under control. Dain had given in to the council before, but enough was enough. He would not let anyone suffer for the council’s Machiavellic plans.

Dain sat in his throne, contemplating needed to be done. It would need to be quick, but If he removed the head of the council, and moved the “witch” somewhere safe, he could convince the masses of the necessity of disbanding the rest of the council. Decapitated, the council wouldn’t have the power to stop him.

Finally, it was the tapestry given in to the magus be the Bannor ambassador’s years ago the decided him: the sacrifice of the saints at the gate, giving themselves so their people could survive. In no way would the gods, or at least the gods worth pleasing, by happy with this travesty of justice. No. to please the gods, he would have to remove the council.



It was a dark and cold night; the night Dain put his plans into action. The Cevedes prison, built into the back of the Amurite Palace, was in every sense of the word a fortress. The only opening was the front gate, which at all times was guarded by, at the very least, two armored guards.

That night, even the moon was shielded by dark and heavy clouds. The only light near the prison were two torches, flickering on each side of the porticuli. The night was still, save for loud singing from one of the alleyways facing the prison. Out of this stumbled a loud drunk, singing to himself. He paused when he saw the guards, and smiled. Stumbling towards the guards, he offered each a drink. Both were too cold and tired to do anything but accept gratefully. As one, the two guards fell heavily to the ground. The drunk, after making sure both were unconscious, whistled softly into the darkness, on a tone more thought than heard. The darkness rippled, and shaped itself into a company of men, all wearing drab clothes, though each with a purple tattoo on their face: the mark of the shield. They milled around the locked gate for a few minutes, as one hunched over the lock. With a small spark, the gate fell open. The entire company of men, save for two who faded into the darkness again to guard the gate, sprinted into the prison. Minutes later, they reappeared, holding a little old lady who seemed lost and bewildered. As quickly as they had appeared, the men faded back into the city.

As they escaped, Bells rang about them, waking the city and calling the guard: The Palace guard had sent out an all call to the city watch. Minutes before, the magus had screamed for the guards, apparently in shear terror. They ran in to find him in bed, stuttering and pointing to the window, which was wide open, with the curtain fluttering, as if someone had just exited. It was only after much consolation that Dain was able to speak. He claimed he had been awoken by a blade to the throat, and, indeed, Dain did have a line of blood on his throat. Through the power over the mind he had inherited from the Kylorskin line, he had convinced the assassin to move back. Capitalizing on the moment, he had called for the guards, and, as the assassin leapt for the window, Dain had grabbed his sleeve, tearing a piece.

On this piece of cloth was unmistakably part of the coat of arms of the House of Badger, one of the highest Amure noble houses.


OOC: Story FFHNES Ii