|"Grandfather" Xadro, of the Mando'ade.|
ZFRP AdvertisementAs I kick the dust off my boots and prepare to settle back in for a few months into the old dens, I cannot help but feel it is of stars and not of earthly matters, for all that the old leather is grimed with flecks of long dried blood beside it. In my absence, things have changed, and strangely, stayed very much the same, it seems. I have not returned to stay, not entirely, but to speak of stranger things and brighter dreams than those in the glass museums we dwell within for the sake of our deviance meeting community and art.ZFRP Advertisement by DarthVengeance0325
To talk, however briefly, of what and where and why I migrated, and intend fully to do so, again.
Let us start with a premise.
Call insanity a place. Fill it with an origin of having been founded to watch mutated, augmented, and batshite imaginary variations of animals duel to demise for the entertainment of wild minded entrepreneurs and mad scientists, with mutants and behemoths being mere flavors of a day- and some outright as hilariously silly as others were o
Brainstorming thoughts for a BreeThrough the pane of the revolving mirror of the mind's eye, a figure forms, at first a silhouette and then slowly- almost imperceptibly- details flush with life and lush with intricacies.Brainstorming thoughts for a Bree by DarthVengeance0325
-If- one is fortunate, a character comes full formed on their own, but more often a writer experiences the tendency to pick and match traits that feel as though they work. Sometimes we redact a detail, or splice one on later with editing. In either extent, a good writer can manage to tailor their various attributes to what their intended role is to be, and the best of us can make someone who is not a stereotype for their role but would not be questioned within it.
There are times one deliberately makes something or someone as out-of-place in a niche as one can to increase dramatic value, of course, but the joke wears thin very swiftly.
Now, then, enough fore-ramble. The actual prompt given is this:
"Basically: our RP is going to include a character who is an angel. Like, "from Heaven, servant of God"
Let's -Try- To Play: (Insert Here)Screw your courage to the sticking place and project your voice as if speaking for effect, rather than your normal mutters. Plug the microphone, triple check the programs, prepare warning disclaimers. Initiate procedures to begin.Let's -Try- To Play: (Insert Here) by DarthVengeance0325
You spoke for an hour and thirty five minutes by the game save clock, and it only recorded the two minutes on the launcher. Don't despair, sore throat-ed thespian, don't leave off angry. At least you learned from your mistake that it reads the launcher and application separately.
But again, disaster, on take and game two!
It saved some flimsy endeavor at video (though full sound from game); unfortunately, you didn't turn on the microphone option in application, and the game itself is entirely too distorted to make out a word of text on the recording for all you do to try to clarify the image. But hey- at least you learned there, too. How silly, self, to try soliloquy to a non-receptive program!
Pained by your previous mistakes, you set aside
|That people actually seem to like my work on occasion is a constant surprise.|
Titles go hereHere, have a kiss to build a dream on, to fire the imagination, to feed a hungry heart. Glowing faces and gleeful hands, rejoice in one another's presence. Know what it is to be more than self in sharing and sharing alike the joy of soul and flesh in the comforting embrace of the others that love you.Titles go here by LeSieur
And if, in gently backpeddling from questing tongue and light teeth on the shoulder more to brace comfortably to escape, your bare sole should squish chocolate that somehow escaped the bustier girlfriend's voracious efforts, it isn't really a notice with the thick of the activity and the busy interaction. Smell of cherry and sweetened cocoa just makes it a little more pleasant than sweat and pheromone really. Hips have yet to intertwine nor clothing to be removed, though breathing between six lungs and three pounding hearts certainly marks intent.
Fortunate, then, that there's more affection than lust, because -of course- there is an interruption. Little Robby, whether acting out as the p
Stories Six- Old World comes CallingI almost didn't hear it when it started, and it shouldn't have meant anything, save that my room was always quiet at this time of morning. It had to be. If I couldn't soundproof against the screams in the night and the music blaring through the city, I wouldn't be good for anything in the morning, let alone doing data for the Followers. Patients coughing, doctors consoling, junk vendors and ... persons of the night... all calling their wares out- it would be enough to frazzle any newcomer's nerves, not just mine.Stories Six- Old World comes Calling by LeSieur
The walls of the Old Mormon Fort simply didn't have the means to do away with ambient, troubling noise, particularly those the relief efforts -inside- generated.
But I had made due. At least, I thought I had. But I hadn't anticipated that the new set of annoying sound would be sitting in my window lattice- or turning over my recharger rifle in his hands with the air of a casual connoisseur. I didn't dare to ask "who". I already knew. The glowing eyes and the silhouette were qu
Stories Six- It Begins with a House"So, in your words, what is your legacy?"Stories Six- It Begins with a House by LeSieur
The dictator poured two glasses of whiskey, then downed one and slid the other over. I barely avoided getting it on my spreadsheet, and he made a disapproving gesture at the spilled alcohol upon the counter, but I never was very adept at catching unexpected objects. I was about to down it when he piped up in answer to the question. "You aint earned my story yet, boy, but you have earned a story."
As I poise to write at last, the gasmasked man speaks up again in a voice entirely and startlingly familiar, even all these years later. "Funny how this turned out- the thousands of hours I spend planning contingencies, plotting possibilities... only to be done in by a mailman with a grandiosity complex."
"House said that?" I asked, and studied the man's lack of eyes. He seemed to be passively annoyed by it. At the very least, he didn't say a word to me for the next three days.
This time there was no alcohol- or sitting, for that matter. A rag m
The Old Gods will call to you,
From their ancient prisons they will sing.
Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,
On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,
The first of My children, lost to night.
And so we burned. We raised nations, we waged wars,
We dreamed up false gods, great demons
Who could cross the Veil into the waking world,
Turned our devotion upon them, and forgot you.
There was no word
For heaven or for earth, for sea or sky.
All that existed was silence.
Then the Voice of the Maker rang out,
The first Word,
And His Word became all that might be:
Dream and idea, hope and fear,
And from it made his firstborn.
And he said to them:
In My image I forge you,
To you I give dominion
Over all that exists.
By your will
May all things be done.
Then in the center of heaven
He called forth
A city with towers of gold,
streets with music for cobblestones,
And banners which flew without wind.
There, He dwelled, waiting
To see the wonders
His children would create.
The children of the Maker gathered
Before his golden throne
And sang hymns of praise unending.
But their songs
Were the songs of the cobblestones.
They shone with the golden light
Reflected from the Maker's throne.
They held forth the banners
That flew on their own.
And the Voice of the Maker shook the Fade
Saying: In My image I have wrought
My firstborn. You have been given dominion
Over all that exists. By your will
All things are done.
Yet you do nothing.
The realm I have given you
Is formless, ever-changing.
And He knew he had wrought amiss.
So the Maker turned from his firstborn
And took from the Fade
A measure of its living flesh
And placed it apart from the Spirits, and spoke to it, saying:
Here, I decree
Opposition in all things:
For earth, sky
For winter, summer
For darkness, Light.
By My Will* alone is Balance sundered
And the world given new life.
And no longer was it formless, ever-changing,
But held fast, immutable,
With Words for heaven and for earth, sea and sky.
At last did the Maker
From the living world
Make men. Immutable, as the substance of the earth,
With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear,
Then the Maker said:
To you, my second-born, I grant this gift:
In your heart shall burn
An unquenchable flame
All-consuming, and never satisfied.
From the Fade I crafted you,
And to the Fade you shall return
Each night in dreams
That you may always remember me.
And then the Maker sealed the gates
Of the Golden City
And there, He dwelled, waiting
To see the wonders
His children would create.
Those who had been cast down,
The demons who would be gods,
Began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth.
And the men of Tevinter heard and raised altars
To the pretender-gods once more,
And in return were given, in hushed whispers,
The secrets of darkest magic.
Uthenera (literally "long sleep" or "endless dream") is a slumber-like state which elders of the ancient elves voluntarily entered when they became weary of life and memories. While their bodies would remain in the mortal realm, their spirits would cross the Veil and wander the shifting paths of the Beyond, accompanied by two children of Mythal - Falon'Din (friend of the Dead) and his twin brother Dirthamen (the wise). This state did not necessarily equal death, as some would return after centuries of sleep and share the secrets of dreams with the People. Yet many would never wake up: their bodies would deteriorate and they would in fact die.
The Dalish claim that in the time of Elvhenan, uthenera was viewed as an act of reverence. An elder would retire to a chamber that was one part bed and one part tomb and, to great ceremony from all the extended family, would succumb to slumber. The family would continue to visit the chamber to pay respect to the one who made such a sacrifice. With the arrival of humans the practice of uthenera began to fade until it ceased forever after the fall of the Elvhen capital, Arlathan.
That was rude of me. I started rambling mid prayer. Your forgiveness I implore, Brother Genetivi.
No matter their power, their triumphs,
The mage-lords of Tevinter were men
And doomed to die.
Then a voice whispered within their hearts,
Shall you surrender your power
To time like the beasts of the fields?
You are the Lords of the earth!
Go forth to claim the empty throne
Of Heaven and be gods.
In secret they worked
Magic upon magic
All their power and all their vanity
They turned against the Veil
Until at last, it gave way.
Above them, a river of Light,
Before them the throne of Heaven, waiting,
Beneath their feet
The footprints of the Maker,
And all around them echoed a vast
But when they took a single step
Toward the empty throne
A great voice cried out
Shaking the very foundations
Of Heaven and earth:
And So is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.
This story is made highly suspect, however, when both demons and Coryphaeus deny the presence- or even existence- of a Maker at any given point within the City. We know that the Magisters did go forth on the advice of subterranean spirit entities to invade the Golden City at the heart of the spirit realm, that they did achieve this with arts stolen from the Elvhen used by the greatest living casters of the day, that something went hideously wrong and they themselves became twisted into horrid immortal mutant monsters that spread contagion and disease wherever they went, and that never again was a spell like their successfully cast. Neither the knowledge nor the resources remained in the world after the darkspawn ravaging.
But the question of the Maker's role, if any, is the biggest of all possible questions here. There has been evidence that the spirits -called- gods, by two faiths, are real, but not of the monotheist religion that much of the world worships.
Violently were they cast down,
For no mortal may walk bodily
In the realm of dreams,
Bearing the mark of their Crime:
Bodies so maimed
And distorted that none should see them
And know them for men.
Deep into the earth they fled,
Away from the Light.
In Darkness eternal they searched
For those who had goaded them on,
Until at last they found their prize,
Their god, their betrayer:
The sleeping dragon Dumat
Twisted even the false-god, and the whisperer
Awoke at last, in pain and horror, and led
Them to wreak havoc upon all the nations of the world:
The first Blight.
Those who had been cast down,
the demons who would be gods,
began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth.
And the men of Tevinter heard,
and raised altars to the pretender gods once more,
and in return were given, in hushed whispers,
the secrets of darkest magic.
But it was not worship the false gods craved.
They urged the magisters to ever-greater depravity,
rewarding them with power and more.
Arrogance became a great caged beast in the lands of Tevinter,
an emptiness that consumed all and could never be filled.
To satisfy its hunger, the mage lords, at the goading of their gods,
assaulted the Golden City, heart of all creation,
to take the Maker's power for themselves.
With magic born of mingled blood and lyrium,
the Tevinter broke into the Maker's House.
But the promised power did not await them there.
The moment they entered the city of the maker, their sin poisoned it.
What had been golden turned black,
and violently they were flung from the world of dreams back into the waking world.
Twisted and corrupted by their crime and their magic into monsters,
they fled underground,
unable to bear the light of day.
The first darkspawn.
There in the depths of the earth they dwelled,
Spreading their taint as a plague, growing in number
Until they were a multitude.
And together they searched ever deeper
Until they found their prize,
Their god, their betrayer.
And down they fled into darkness and despair.</b>
The demons who would be gods. The only place, in fact, where it even seems to lay blame at the foot of spirits. Ask instead this:
Why would the Dalish claim their own gods had been imprisoned after the civil war destroyed every chance of them gaining an accurate depiction of events? But if this is true, it is either not completely true, or it is true but in a different way than is interpreted. For the Dalish say that the prisons are 'beyond the Fade'. Technically, the Dalish call the Fade the Beyond anyway, so it would be either an extraplanar dimension quite past any point of reaching, or a physical location simply past the world of Thedas (like those that the Eluvian mirrors can reach), or... and typical of Fen'Harel's trickery- simply within then-unreachable (or subsequently unreachable) locations upon the world itself.
Those who had sought to claim
Heaven by violence destroyed it. What was
Golden and pure turned black.
Those who had once been mage-lords,
The brightest of their age,
Were no longer men, but monsters
This is true.
It may not, however, actually be entirely their fault. Certainly their spell, their ill intents, their pride, and their decisions after waking. But not, in fact, the destruction-and-corruption.
A document the Inquisitor recovers in the Fade reveals this:
Master unveiled a new altar. It stands higher than a man, like a great statue, and great spikes jut out from its length, hungry for blood. Master calls it "the Claw of Dumat" and says that the altar will help bring Tevinter to glory. I praised it, as was expected, and Master smiled. It was good to see him smile again. He has been fearful of late, vexed by the loss of followers. He has met with the other priests, and in secret, I have heard them discussing ways to return the people of Tevinter to the ways of the Old Gods, as is only just.
He spoke to me later in the day, and asked that I call him Corypheus, as it was the name he would take for himself after a ritual. Master - now Corypheus - told me that my people, the elves of old, were tied to the Fade, and that in order to carry out the will of Dumat, he would need to call upon the magic that lives in our blood.
Corypheus told me to gather all of the elven servants and bring them to the western hall of our home at midnight. That is the hall where the Claw of Dumat is now kept. There are shackles across the top of the great altar, and pools lined with runes beneath the claws.
I have sent my wife and children away, but have not warned the others. A few I may save. If I tried to save us all, we would only be killed in some other way, and others would die in our place.
Master once laughed and joked. He could be stern, but he was not a cruel man. The weakening of the temples brought fear into his heart, and that fear has changed him. The cuts upon his arms are deeper and longer where he used his blood magic more often. He speaks to his wife little. He listens only to the voices in his dreams.
It is almost midnight. The Claw of Dumat, great and spiked and merciless, is all my mind can see. I must gather the others. My family is safe. Corypheus will take me, but not those I love.</i>
Blood magic is a terribly potent, but demanding, art. The loss of even a few drops necessary can catastrophically alter the result, as is displayed continually. It is also a practice that risks, by its very nature, being used for ill intent.
If the loss of a few drops can change a healing spell into a tumescent spray of boils, what would several missing elves do to an attempt to breach the very heavens?
The curious thing is, the aptly named God of Silence did not warn his disciple. He either did not know of the Elf's duplicity, or deliberately elected to continue baiting his servants to become free new gods anyway, or- and most frightening of all- perhaps inspired the Elf's courage to depart himself, in order to ruin the ritual and cause a reaction that might, at last, allow him to wake up from eternal slumber.
Who are the Gods?
Who are the Titans?
What is the Maker, if anything?
What role does Sandal have yet to play in the ballet of souls, swords, and secrets?
What is a man, but a miserable little pile of secrets?
These questions, perhaps, next time.
Until then, remember, the Lyrium is alive. It dreams. It can catch the Blight and mutate and devour, like all things. And the next time you hear your blade singing in combat, consider (if it doesn't lose you your head) that the weapon may -still- be alive, and singing in the Fade, too, as it does. For Lyrium, we are convinced, is the root of the world's magic, or at least the root of applying it to physical- material- objects and, well, materials. And it, too, was part of the great assault of heaven.
And contemplate, given how much of magic and might is described in tones of song and melody throughout, how much of the mind and will is displayed against notes discordant and beautiful all the same, what Coryphaeus truly aspired to if he understood the relationships when he elected 'The Conductor' as the title for his arrogance.
Ven the Rambler
Hear me, O ye listener,|
And know this to be true-
My pleasure comes from listening
To each and all of you.
"The day my words mean something is the day my words have meaning."
Current Residence: San Antonio, Texas, at the moment
Print preference: Large, well done.
Favourite genre of music: Classic Rock/Progressive Metal/Instrumental
Favourite style of art: Sci-fi.
Operating System: Windows XP
Favourite cartoon character: Edward Elric
Personal Quote: "The best defense is a good offense"