Heroes of the Fall

**shorewood** · 2012-10-30, 02:26 PM (ISO 8601)

"That is... unfortunate." Haramhold responded disappointed in the news or lack thereof. If Rumel had survived the fall Haramhold would have to trust that he had found a way to take care of himself, that all of his missing siblings had found a way to take care of themselves. The Smith fell silent as Amanda flew Green MorningStar gracefully toward Salus taking her time so that her brother in laws could properly see the realm.

Looking over the side The Weaver and Silvar saw a half a dozen small towns and villages of several hundred or perhaps a thousand individuals mostly farmers, one town bordered a lake that had grown over the past four years, starting at as a persistent puddle but now stretched three miles in diameter.

Rolling hills where dotted with small glades and one quarry so large that it could easily be seen from the air workers moving about waving up at the airship as it passed. And then the city came into view, first the domes capped in bronze could be seen. Next tall buildings with White marble columns lined the paved streets as wagons and people mulled about in ordered confusion. The roofs were made of dark green and blue tiles pleasantly contrasting the white marble below. In the center of Salus stood a great spiral tower stretching into the sky like a hand reaching toward home its polished marble walls shined brilliantly in the sun.

As they docked Haramhold broke his silence This is Salus the city I call home. I have taught its people many of the secrets of stone and metal and together we built this city."

The Weaver and perhaps Silvar if the dreams of Amar ever strayed to his lost home could see a resemblance to the white city in the architecture. But where Baz'Auran's home had been formed of thought and whose buildings never felt the weight of reality nor the limits of stone or wood. Haramhold's city bore those restraints and thrived off them. Its columns and arches were thick drawing a simple sort of beauty from their strength.

Motioning them down the stairs Haramhold showed them too their rooms near the top of the tower. They were not large but were far from cramped with simple beds and sturdy furniture. It was very similar to the quarters Haramhold kept in the white city. After they had left any possessions they wished to no longer carry in their rooms Haramhold asked them My study is downstairs if you follow me."

Placing a gentle hand on her husbands shoulder Amanda admonishes him Haramhold! Shouldn't you offer Silvar and The Weaver some refreshments and perhaps a tour of the city before you put them to work?"

Blushing in embarrassment Haramhold knew she was right. Amanda kept him rooted in the world rather than his work and Haramhold loved her for it. Amanda is right of course. I'll see to supper in the mean time feel free to explore Salus."

**THEChanger** · 2012-10-30, 09:09 PM (ISO 8601)

Salus-The Tower

The Weaver smiled sadly at the mighty tower which Haramhold had constructed, gleaming white against the bright blue sky. He could tell to where his brother's home reached. He also knew just how far to came from reaching it. But, as they arrived, The Weaver's mood could not be brought low. He was among family-strange though his family was-and nothing could make him upset for long. The Weaver chuckled when Amanda reminded her husband of the need for food. "Do not worry overmuch, brother. I'm sure Silvar and I can find our way around this fine city of yours. I shall return before the setting of the sun."

The Weaver managed to keep his decorum until after he left Haramhold's tower. After the mighty door closed behind him, The Weaver broke into a huge grin, and with a single vigorous whoop of joy, sprinted off into the city. Yes, it was vacation for him. That didn't mean he could sit still. He was the Slumbering King, the Serpent Who Circled The World, He-Who-Wanders, and Lord of the Dreamwalkers. He was the master of threads and a conductor of color. And right now, Salus desperately needed some color.

Salus-A fountain
A little girl looked on, as a strange man in a plain brown cloak stared at the fountain. It was a simple marble fountain, one of the few decorative features in the city, but it was plain, projecting a single stream of water into the air which fell back into the basin. The man was muttering to himself, walking around the fountain, occasionally shaking his head, as though he were trying to decide on something.

The Weaver felt a small tug on his cloak. Distracted from his planning, he looked down, and saw a small girl, gazing up wonderingly at this man with one eye the purple of royalty, and the other red as fire. "Um...mister...what are you doing?" The Weaver chuckled, and knelt to look the girl in the eyes. "Me? I'm just looking around. I come from a far away land, and I am visiting my brother who lives in this city. He told me that I should go and see it for myself. And I must say, it is very impressive."

The little girl smiled and nodded. "Haramhold made us the city to keep us safe. He made it very well!" The Weaver chuckled. "I can see that. Haramhold seems like a very nice person. But, where I come from, there is color everywhere. Why is there no color in your city?" The girl looked puzzled, and scratched her head. "I don't know mister. I guess Haramhold just didn't think about it." The Weaver nodded. "That sounds like something Haramhold might do. We have many stories about him where I come from." The Weaver looked around, conspiratorially, and smiled at the girl. "What is your name, little one?" "Marisa." "Well then, Marisa, would you like me to teach you how to bring color to your city?"

It only took about half an hour for Marisa to get the basics of The Weaver's teachings, and an hour more for the fountain and the square around it to be covered in color. The Weaver waved to his new friend as he said good-bye. "Remember Marisa! If you really want to brighten the city, keep teaching anyone who will listen! And not just the really fun trick I showed you! Teach them about weaving, and painting, and art too!" "Okay mister! I will!"

Salus-A Back Alley
"A dash of orange...a little touch of red there...yes, that's the right shade..." "Hey! You!"

A man came rushing out of his house to find a stranger, clothed in a simple brown cloak, at his back wall...coloring it. With paint. The stranger turned, and let out a hearty laugh. "You'll thank me later, friend! Tell others about what you've found!" And with that, the stranger dashed off down the alley. The homeowner, furious that his home had been tampered with, chased the defacer down the alley-until the stranger climbed up a wall with a rope (or was it a thread?) that appeared from nowhere and latched onto an overhang. Puzzled, the man returned to his wall to see what the stranger had painted. They were instructions. It showed how to build a tool to make wool into string, to weave it together, and to dye it many colors. The man, who often traded in wool, realized he could make this tool-a loom, according to the graffiti. And it would be able to make clothing unlike anything Salus had seen.

Salus-A City Square
The Weaver danced. He danced with wild, unabashed passion. This was not to say he danced well. His movements were not precise, nor were they necessarily beautiful, though some most certainly would find them so. He did not dance with any skill. But he let his body take him where it would, surrendering completely to impulse. And everywhere his feet touched, a small bit of color would appear, and spread.

The Weaver was not alone in his dancing. From the streets and shops around the square, children came, running, sprinting, jumping to join in the wild dance. Some adults, too, came to The Weaver's dance, some to watch, some to dance as well. And every time the dancers' feet touched the ground, a small bit of color would appear, and spread.

Eventually, The Weaver could no longer contain himself, and his dance took him into the sky, and atop the roofs of Salus, and off he went, those he taught the spiral dance to still working his magic on the streets of Salus.

Salus
All throughout the city, whispers were spoken. It was whispered that a spirit had visited their city-not Jongo, who was chaos and revelry, but a different spirit, somewhere between the great Haramhold and his brother Jongo the Evershifting. A spirit-nay, a deity-whose nature was to make, like Haramhold, but also to change and bring joy, like Jongo. A deity whose every footstep brought color, and who taught children to mix dyes together to make paint, and who taught weaving, and sculpture, and dancing to the people.

All throughout the city, whispers were spoken. It was whispered that many of the children had begun to sneak away from their parents, and play a game taught to them by a stranger with two different colored eyes that weren't colors that eyes were supposed to have. This game had a ring-leader, a young girl named Marisa, and the children who played the game were changed in some way no one could explain. And wherever the children went, the world seemed a little brighter, a little more vivid. And it seemed that when the children would go to other children who had not played this game, the other children would be amazed, and say that those who played the game had purple eyes. But no adults could see those eyes.

All throughout the city, whispers were spoken. It was whispered that someone had come to the city, and brought magic with them. And that now, the citizens of Salus could use that magic, if they could only dream of it.

Whispers were spoken. And The Weaver laughed to hear them, because whispers were like dreams. They were always partly true, but no one would ever know which were true and which were not.

Rose would be proud of him.

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1 Minor Act: Bless Salus
As part of The Weaver's antics today, the city of Salus has become more connected with the world of dreams. Art has come to the city, and though function in all likelyhood will still come first-after all, they are Haramhold's people-the people of Salus now have great artistic talent within them as well. Not all will pursue that talent, but it is present in each.

But, here's the real meat of it.

2 Major Acts: Create Color Magic
The Weaver has done something fantastic. He has brought just a small smidge of the Dream-Time into the Disk, and has given that to the mortals of the Disk. Those skilled in Color Magic can create color from their souls, and can spread that color like paint across any surface. Individuals who obtain great skill with Color Magic can even make the images they paint with their soul colors animate, and come to life. Color Magic Fire can burn, Color Magic Horses will carry their painters like any other, Color Magic Tigers will hunt. However, because of this discipline's close connection to the Dream-Time, only mortals still capable of healthy dreams can use it. Those with sleeping disorders, or whose dreams are under constant manipulation by an outside source(Looking at you, Cultists of Het) cannot access this magic.

Note that, while Color Magic has applications in deception, it is not an illusion. The colors created by Color Magic are real, and unless painted over or altered again by Color Magic, they will remain indefinately. They become a part of the object painted, and cannot be washed off or erased.

Color Mages do not appear any different to human adults. However, children as well as Jongoscion will note that the left eye of a Color Mage sometimes appears to take on a purple color. Among the Jongoscion, Gweenies are especially sensative to Color Mages, and can see the constantly twisting threads of color inside them on occasion.

The Dreamwalkers are skilled in Color Magic, though the Dream-Time is morphic enough that this is not always noticable.

1 Minor Act: Create a small number of servants
The Weaver first taught Color Magic to a young Salurian named Marisa. The girl then went and taught this "game" to her friends, and they to their friends. As a result, there are a number of young Color Mages wandering around Salus, who will eventually grow up to become older Color Mages. If asked where they learned their magic, they simply reply "Rodney taught us a very fun game."

**TechnOkami** · 2012-10-31, 02:21 PM (ISO 8601)

The Digger and The Earth

"Strange..." Jethro muttered.

"Ironic, really. I cannot die of natural means, and I'm the new God of Death."

Jethro looked to the earth, and felt its presence underneath him like a heartbeat.

"I can see life, in its truest form no less, and have a degree of power through it. However..." Jethro muttered, " I also see death in its raw form, and hold its power as well..."

Jethro looked down at his hand, binding his fingers into a fist, releasing it fully splayed, back and forth between those states for a brief moment.

"I am scared of that power... and what may occur because of it."

He turned to Llassar.

"Luckily, I do not need to start slaughtering random people because of my occupation; life kills people already. However, I still do have to get my hands dirty, sort to speak." He says as he lifts his ancestral shovel, feeling the old and worn wood grains against his hands.

"Digging graves is, and has been my duty, after all. Really, I'm still doing what I've always done, but for the world instead of the small village I come from."

The head of his shovel met the ground, dug in and carrying Jethro's leaning weight as he looked at Llassar.

"Didn't you mention a feast of sorts?"

**HalfTangible** · 2012-11-05, 12:50 AM (ISO 8601)

Epilogue

Ouran gazed at the sand beneath his feet, feeling the grains between his toes. He had assumed the form of a young human for this outing, with dark black hair and deeply tanned skin. He knew that if he looked in the water he would see a black mask around his eyes - it was the only thing he couldn't change anymore, which he supposed was okay. He liked the mask. Simple, but striking.

Besides, he'd learned since then what he'd gotten in exchange: Not only were his transformations more stable, simpler to pull off and less tiring, but all of reality was his to shift and change.

So what happens now?

He looked down and to his left to see Sihlk, in the form of a wolf with hooves for some reason, trotting alongside him with light purple fur. Her ears flopped around a bit while she stared up at him, awaiting an answer from the newborn god.

Ouran shrugged. I really don't know. He admitted. I mean, I guess I'm supposed to... go out and use this power, right?

I guess. She cocked an eyebrow, making it glow luminescent for dramatic effect. Shouldn't you do what you wanna?

I don't wanna do anything, Sihlk. I honestly have no idea what to do now. I'm free of my past, but I have no idea what to do for the future. They turned and moved off of the beach, further inland towards the forest

Make Althra a grave?

I hated her.

With her name changed to 'Bitchy McWitchenstein?

Too much work for too crude a joke.

She shifted into a horse. Declare war on Creator-Father-Mother?

... WHY WOULD I DO THAT?!

I dunno. Seems like fun.

......

For you, I mean. I'd still be on his side.

Gee Sihlk, suggesting I go get myself killed for fun and adding you'll be trying to kill me too. You're a great friend.

Well what about the humans?

What about them? He asked, cocking an eyebrow as he hopped on her back. Immediately she bucked him off.

She huffed. There's an entire group of humans that were enslaved to a mad bitch's attempts to become a goddess. You could try and become their god.

I'd be a terrible leader.

Probably but it's not like anyone else is gonna do any better, and you have nothing else to do.

I really don't see what kind of-

At least until you think of something else.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand. Sihlk-

Come ooooooon. She split her horse in a wide, catty grin. Just go hang around the humans. For meeeeee?

Again?

Aw come on, it'll be better than the last time I asked you for a favor.

I hope so. I DIED.

That's the spirit! She bounded forward, now a purple doe.

Is there a reason you're always purple?

It's the color I sound like.

...
What?!

The Masked One

That is the story of how the Masked One came to be.
A tale of monsters and men.
A tale of arrogance turned to destruction.
A tale of heroism born from suffering.
A tale of chance and destiny, meeting at a crossroads.

Now hear the tale of our first meeting,
When the God of Change chose his people.
How he picked us from a random group of
humans, looking for nothing more than a
change.
It might even be true.

**Ladorak** · 2012-11-05, 05:04 PM (ISO 8601)

Originally Posted by AntiMatter101

Opportunity is knocking!

"A tournament?"

What a pleasant surprise, Frellon knew it would be more than unfair for a god to compete, but it was a great opportunity.

"I would love to watch!"

With luck, Frellon might witness a fighting style he had not yet seen, as these people had been developing swordplay on their own for a few generations.

"Show me the way! I finally get to see how well you passed along your lessons, brother." he said with a grin.

Carolinus smiled good naturedly at his brother, recalling a distant time, when life was simpler and happier, when he and Frellon had competed for the approval of mighty Eliat. While Shiven and Nieve engaged in the odd flirtation of the blade Carolinus and Frellon drew closer to each other in the natural rivalry of siblings in manly pursuits. Looking back with older, wiser and more cynical eyes Carolinus recognised how Eliat had played one against the other, driving both to excel with hard comparisons and sparing praise. Such a ploy would no longer work, he mused quietly, he and Frellon were harder now, winnowed by their experiences on the Disk, and also more confident, less needy of the approval of others. Frellon now had the walk of a man who needed nothing from anyone, who greeted such praise as welcome but unnecessary gifts.

'Would that I could lay claim to the skills you will soon witness, and in some small way it might be said I could. I trained the men who trained some of the men. Yet, as in all things, I have encouraged the people of Markien to honour the ways of their fathers, blade styles foreign to me are taught and honed, I merely attempt to set them to their proper purpose.'

********

Wardstone, in the shadow of the Keep

A number of wooden platforms had been erected, their healthy brown lustre, lacquered and shining in the sun, was in stark contrast to the pale dust of the courtyard. Already Frellon could see Carolinus had not exaggeration the variance of styles. There were short blades and long, curved blades and straight, huge two handed swords and swift darting daggers. Most carried one blade, some carried two. A knot of confident looking men stood apart from the others, their hand-and-a-half swords tied to nooses around their necks.

The men were as varied as their blades. Some were huge hulking brutes, some looked and moved more like dancers than warriors. Some warmed up by chopping the air, some by stretching, some merely stood and took in their competition. Garbs of a dozen colours and a hundreds styles and cuts further served to complete the impression of nonuniformity, it was easy to mark how the groups kept to themselves, not mingling wit those of other styles. Only the Wardens moved easily between these disparate groups. They were easily identified by the golden disks that shone upon their foreheads, by the way they towered over all about them, by their bulging rippling muscles, easy grace and inhuman beauty.

Some seemed excited, others hid their thoughts, yet all eyes followed the two gods as they made their way into the assemble. Carolinus arched an eyebrow at his brother 'Is there anything you'd care to say, before they begin? I am sure they would welcome any word that fell from your lips.'

**Raz_Fox** · 2012-11-05, 11:49 PM (ISO 8601)

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Originally Posted by Kasanip

Sonata and Fayruz at The Olm
"Let Us Sing."

As the dragons disappeared into the distance, before Fayruz's beauty could be turned sorrowful with worry or dark thoughts of the warning, a gentle hand came to her shoulder, and Sonata gave a comforting smile as she watched beside her sister, the disappearing dragons.

"Though the darkness is before the horizon, dearest sister, I cannot see your face turned to sadness again." She hesitated, and took Fayruz's hands gently, leading her to look back at the Olm, the softening purple and red sky of the evening spreading out the wonders of color on the walls and roofs. And as she led Fayruz gently through the streets, she spoke wistfully.

"Do you remember, dearest sister, when a wrong note was played, what it was the conductor always said?" Sonata's smile turned mysterious, a shared memory as night fell. And she released Fayruz's hands for a second, climbing gracefully the stairs as her dress swirled about in the twilight.
And she pointed carelessly to the rising red moon, and with three words
"Continue to play.", so the moon seemed to glisten if only a little brighter and more purely.
And she turned in her spin to be beside Fayruz again, taking her hand gently towards the market square. And the sounds of the busy ending day and people seemed quiet and tranquil beneath the moon, so that it was only Sonata and Fayruz who stood there.

"Do you remember, dearest sister, the motions of the Elude to Heaven?
Can we not find that comfort again, and turn it's song here, let it echo in the Olm, like 8 million birds and flowers?

I would play this song, but only together." And her hand held Fayruz's tightly as Sonata's face turned to the moon and hidden from her sister, though it could be heard emotionally.

"We, who fell from our home above... I feared what had been lost. But now, I have found things in this world. And I have found you, and the others again.

And now I know why I sing. Something that had escaped me, while used to I watch your harp and played my flute. When you stood at the banquets, and those times I fought with Nieve. The peaceful things, the hopeful and light and pure things that were there. And my heart aches for what we lost that day. But it isn't gone. We still have it, in these memories and in our hands and voices, and that is very precious to me." She turned back to Fayruz, and hugged her.

"I can still hear your beating heart, and breathe, and the loving, joyful song that is you. And that is sacred." She chocked on the words emotionally, and pulled back, her tears hidden with a smile that was so genuine to remind of the white moon, and not of foxes or dragons, or falling, or humans.

"Let's play a concert together. You and me, the princesses of the White City, of Dusk and Dawn. Let us play together and for one night here, let it be without sadness and misery, without pains or worries. Let us return the moon's beauty, and be at peace for one night more. So that tomorrow will be brighter, and so that we may celebrate, if only for these little joys and blessings." She touched her forehead to Fayruz, and then placed into her hand the sapphire jewel she had received from the dragon lord. And in this tender moment she also revealed the red jewel she held. And she whispered to her sister.
"That is Seiunju, the Blue Cloud Jewel, given to me with it's twin sister Sekiunju, Red Cloud Jewel, by the Dragon Lord who watches my domain. Someday may it be you will come to visit me. But for you, I would give this jewel, for we are the same."

She stepped back, and held the jewel to the sky.
"I dedicate this Sekiunju to my Home in the Moon, so Far Away, may it's melody forever ring truly in the hearts of my family, and of all who hear it's memories of our past." And there seemed to be rain around her singing it's melody, but the raindrops were as diamonds, each with their own unique note as a chorus, and the rain washed over her like the many shared and shed since the fall, and under their feet, the market suddenly was a grassy field, and where the white diamond rain fell grew white flowers gently.
The Sekiunju as it was hit with this diamond rain sang it's own song, and as Sonata held it to her lips, and breathed into it, changed and began to become a flute.

Dust. Rust-red dust, mingling with gold. Stones cut oddly, worn by wind. Too large for men to have built what few pillars remain - and here, a wall, its carvings long worn away, cutting apart two sections of the sprawling camp-city. Houses, stone-sided, embroideries over the doors. Tents, wide, narrow, most twice the size of the houses, some open-faced, some closed away.

Listen. Goat trip-trap. The drumming of a boy, the flutework of a faltering man, the crash of a stoneblock falling from its pulley, the shrill scream of a spearhead thrust into shallow water. The rustle of ropes (they scared her in the night) and the susurrous nature of cloth. Wind tossing up dust and sand and heat. The whine of insects that feed on sweat and blood and filth, the hoarse breath of the elder.

If you were keen-eared and knew something of how rhythms played themselves out, and you moved within it while not being a part of it - because no part of the whole can see the whole - you would find the beat it becomes. It is irregular and at the same time repetitious, returning ever and again to its theme. It sounds like humans living to itself.

If you pressed yourself against the maiden who, despite scouring, is the most beautiful woman in the world, you would realize that it is her breath, her heartbeat, her footstep. Or perhaps they are in tune with the rhythm of the Olm. Which one begets the other?

Morning becomes midday. The sisters walk, hand in hand. Blood pumps in veins, feet are pricked and roughened by the rock underneath, the air moves as it should. Lalalalalala, this is the song of being and continuing to be when everything says be not. Midday becomes evening. The sisters stand in market, and the people - dancing to this tune - sit by their fires and spread stories about dragons and goddesses and lalalalalalala, the song continues, and the rifts caused by the fall of the sky close themselves up. Have we not been chosen by the goddess? Did she not, like us, stand up after hardship and woe?

Fayruz was alone and yet not so, there in the market. She looked up at the moon, red filling gold. It used to be silver and white and everything was better, and I had not been hurt, and the people never made art but sat in the darkness waiting. She listened, and smiled slightly, and lets her sister say what must be said. Wounds of the heart must be opened to be healed.

The jewel, blue as seas and dragons and skies, now lay in her hand. When she strokes it, it cries out like a harp. "I dedicate..." The words faded away, and she had to muster them back together, step by step. "I dedicate this, the Seiunju, the Sapphire Harp Stone, to our home made here." Her sister raised it high, and so she knelt, beautiful silk on the cobbles. It touched the earth, and where her sister's rain becomes a never-ending evolution of melody, she coaxes from the jewel's heart a thrumming, so vast and deep that it becomes the sea beneath the stars. "May the melodies of mortals become as beautiful as the choruses of the White City, and may they be a comfort in the dusk where there is only struggle, and pain in the struggle, and power in overcoming." Her pale skin was flushed slightly, and it was a perfect flush. And yet, in her can be seen every woman of the Fayheran, and in them all there is something of her. She is perfect because they are imperfect, and yet in their imperfections they become more like her. "May its song bring rest to the bloodied and peace to the lawless. To us here... may whoever watches over us, the lost, have mercy on our trials. Bring us to our rest safely, knowing we have done all we could."

She took up the harp - there was no change-state between harp and stone, it had always been a stone, and now it was a harp, pale wood and sapphire inlays, and strings of silver fixed to pins of white gold - and ran pale fingers (the dirt was an affectation, a cosmetic on her skin, and yet it was right for it to be there) across them.

The beat of the Olm slowed, and her heart became oh-so-very still. She took up her sister's song, and yet it was changed - the glories of the White City became, at the touch of her fingers upon the strings, ruins of a beautiful age. At the center, the theme repeated, was hope. Hope in the midst of the fall, in the ruins, as she knelt in a marketplace of dyed cloth built on the stones of a temple crumbled away into decay, a twice-broken thrice-standing goddess.

And her heart beat, her breath flowed, her fingers danced to the song.

**The_Snark** · 2012-11-06, 05:45 AM (ISO 8601)

Of the First Killing-Saints

Here is a thing that began to happen in the lands of the Tatanka thirty years past—

If you leave your village and walk into the wilds to the north and east, where the beastmaster tribes and the beach people live, you may meet a man with red and violet eyes. Maybe it will be a woman instead, it doesn't matter. He will have bare feet, and wear only grey, and he will be smiling. This is how you will recognize them.

If you are lucky, he will offer to share a meal and a fire with you for a night. If you are unlucky, he will have a weapon in his hand, and he will try to kill you.

They don't hate you, you understand. To them killing is just like boasting and telling jokes around the fire, or challenging someone to a swimming contest: a way to pass the time, test themselves, and remind the world of its transience. Sometimes people die for no good reason! Nothing lasts forever!

This is what they are trying to tell the world, although it isn't working so well because most people are too busy dying to listen. They are very good at killing. They don't know what mercy is, and aren't interested in learning. They aren't afraid of death—not for themselves, and not for other people.

It is important not to run away when you see them, because like dogs they will feel compelled to give chase, and that will likely end badly for you. Don't look too afraid, or they may take pity on you and decide to free you from the burden of fear by killing you. Just smile right back, and you will have a chance—or carry a weapon, and hope that you are good enough.

They aren't all bad news. They are good company when not trying to kill you, provided you do not expect anything more than a night of merrymaking. They like underdogs; if you are losing a fight then they may join in on your side, to make things more sporting. And if you should find your soul beset by foul magics intent on trapping it, or hounded by strange beasts in the Lands Beyond, oh! Oh, then you are fortunate indeed, for these are the warrior-saints of lost Avyra, blessed and cursed by her sister of the red hand, and they tolerate no slight to the Great Wheel.

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1 major act to create a monster race of sorts, the killing-saints or red wanderers or whatever people feel like calling them (they have no name for themselves). This was something hi-mi-tsu and I had worked out for a ceremony a while back—I don't want to just let the concept go, so I'm going to go ahead and retroactively place this before Avyra vanished/died.

The first killing-saints were made from the warriors who accompanied Nieve into the Quiet Lands. Jubilant at the discovery that there would be another life after death, they offered their services to Avyra, and were accepted. They were taught the paths to and from the world of the dead, and their souls were altered to make them better servants. Each one retains a few hazy memories from life to life: practical skills, mostly, plus a sense of purpose. This makes all but the youngest inhumanly skilled warriors—as time passes, they have decades or even centuries of experience in battle to draw upon.

They are born among humans—in most respects they are human—but typically leave home as young adults, driven by a nagging sense of unfulfilled purpose. Memory leads them to the Quiet Lands, where they join their fellows and rediscover what they are. On occasion, they refuse this call, or an old one will decide to cast aside his duties and live in the mortal world. They will be human in the next life; the goddess of death did not want to bind them to her service unwilling. At other times, a human will seek to join them, and should they die in the goddess's service their next incarnation will find itself among the killing-saints. Thus the ranks stay full, neither growing too much nor shrinking.

In the living world they are quixotic murderers, careless of death. What sin is it to kill if their victims return to the Great Wheel to be born anew? In the Quiet Lands, however, they are guides and protectors, and they violently oppose any defilement of the immortal soul and the cycle of reincarnation.

**AntiMatter101** · 2012-11-06, 04:26 PM (ISO 8601)

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Originally Posted by Ladorak

Carolinus smiled good naturedly at his brother, recalling a distant time, when life was simpler and happier, when he and Frellon had competed for the approval of mighty Eliat. While Shiven and Nieve engaged in the odd flirtation of the blade Carolinus and Frellon drew closer to each other in the natural rivalry of siblings in manly pursuits. Looking back with older, wiser and more cynical eyes Carolinus recognised how Eliat had played one against the other, driving both to excel with hard comparisons and sparing praise. Such a ploy would no longer work, he mused quietly, he and Frellon were harder now, winnowed by their experiences on the Disk, and also more confident, less needy of the approval of others. Frellon now had the walk of a man who needed nothing from anyone, who greeted such praise as welcome but unnecessary gifts.

'Would that I could lay claim to the skills you will soon witness, and in some small way it might be said I could. I trained the men who trained some of the men. Yet, as in all things, I have encouraged the people of Markien to honour the ways of their fathers, blade styles foreign to me are taught and honed, I merely attempt to set them to their proper purpose.'

********

Wardstone, in the shadow of the Keep

A number of wooden platforms had been erected, their healthy brown lustre, lacquered and shining in the sun, was in stark contrast to the pale dust of the courtyard. Already Frellon could see Carolinus had not exaggeration the variance of styles. There were short blades and long, curved blades and straight, huge two handed swords and swift darting daggers. Most carried one blade, some carried two. A knot of confident looking men stood apart from the others, their hand-and-a-half swords tied to nooses around their necks.

The men were as varied as their blades. Some were huge hulking brutes, some looked and moved more like dancers than warriors. Some warmed up by chopping the air, some by stretching, some merely stood and took in their competition. Garbs of a dozen colours and a hundreds styles and cuts further served to complete the impression of nonuniformity, it was easy to mark how the groups kept to themselves, not mingling wit those of other styles. Only the Wardens moved easily between these disparate groups. They were easily identified by the golden disks that shone upon their foreheads, by the way they towered over all about them, by their bulging rippling muscles, easy grace and inhuman beauty.

Some seemed excited, others hid their thoughts, yet all eyes followed the two gods as they made their way into the assemble. Carolinus arched an eyebrow at his brother 'Is there anything you'd care to say, before they begin? I am sure they would welcome any word that fell from your lips.'

Frellon was slightly surprised that Carolinus had not taken as personal of role in the training of his people, but then again, Carolinus ran a whole city of people. Training them all personally was impractical, and he must have more pressing matters on his plate to deal with. This did make it more interesting, however, as this meant there was definitely more in store than a dilution of the same styles learned at the white city.

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The diversity of form which met Frellon’s eyes was as intriguing as it was expected. Frellon knew well that the way of the sword draws men of all kinds. Looking around, he was already sizing them up, trying to figure ahead of time who might win against who.

“I could say something, sure.”

Frellon took a brief moment to look his audience over again. Then, simply spoke his mind.

“You have all come from different walks of life. Different ancestors, with different traditions and different teachings have passed their skills to you. But here you are united under one banner; you are all here for one purpose and with one mind. Whatever happens in this tournament, I have no doubt you will honor your ancestors and your brethren alike. Now make them proud!”

**Erik Vale** · 2012-11-06, 07:24 PM (ISO 8601)

If You Go Into The Woods Tonight

Whispers grasped at the edge of his vision as he walked, things flickered, trees shifted, he did not go round about, and he was not yet hailed, so Scha'Mane kept walking, he needed not sit to wait. He might, but he probably not, he wanted to do his work, and after waking Kalandor he could seek the blessings of the fey.

I Hope This Helps to Clarify
I Hope You Die
"In the height of Bloodlust, soldiers just kill, they don't think, they fight, they live to feel blood on their hands and blades. Thats why they all were colours and fight in formation."
Kalandor, a note on soldiers, brigands and battle.

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Yes, the Tittle is from the song "I Hope You Die" by the Bloodhound gang.

Steel clashed on steel as the chase continued, but now, Azath sourt to escape, a rabit, a bat, a worm, a man, all these forms ran from Kalandor.
And then he caught up, full of rage just inside the veiw of those holding the enterance, he would not let Azath harm them again.
In one meaty fist, Kalandor's hand yanked and threw Azath back into the darkness, the only thing the Villagers saw of him, was the meaty brown furred fist of a Minitor, the same one that was Shca'Mane's father...
Slamming against the wall, Azath took the for of a Orc, with a ricked bronxe axe, comming up to halt a blow from an oversized halbard, inches from the forms face, which quickly came spinning around to hit Azath full in the face.
He just was't fast enough to keep up with Kalandor.

Killing Saints and things Beastial
"Their skill matches a Minitors force and instinct, An orcs rage and skill, and the intelligence and speed of a Nentuk."
Manuk, a Mintou 'Preist Guard', talking to the shaman council when Killing saints first arrived on the northern continent.

It wasn't to much of a surprise when restless spirits became killing saints on the Northern continent to those that watched such things. So many things were of 'the beasts of chaos', and even if they worshiped the gods something in them hated them without mercy. If the chance of a human being fought by one was 7/10, then it was 89/100, as though they were often braver, they were dispised.
Only now, however, did anyone begin to discuss them truely, and begin organising something against them, not that it worked very well. As it was, the followers of Kalandor were not truely fighters, they sought peace, something that would not work in this setting.

**Tectonic Robot** · 2012-11-07, 12:46 PM (ISO 8601)

Originally Posted by TechnOkami

The Digger and The Earth

"Strange..." Jethro muttered.

"Ironic, really. I cannot die of natural means, and I'm the new God of Death."

Jethro looked to the earth, and felt its presence underneath him like a heartbeat.

"I can see life, in its truest form no less, and have a degree of power through it. However..." Jethro muttered, " I also see death in its raw form, and hold its power as well..."

Jethro looked down at his hand, binding his fingers into a fist, releasing it fully splayed, back and forth between those states for a brief moment.

"I am scared of that power... and what may occur because of it."

He turned to Llassar.

"Luckily, I do not need to start slaughtering random people because of my occupation; life kills people already. However, I still do have to get my hands dirty, sort to speak." He says as he lifts his ancestral shovel, feeling the old and worn wood grains against his hands.

"Digging graves is, and has been my duty, after all. Really, I'm still doing what I've always done, but for the world instead of the small village I come from."

The head of his shovel met the ground, dug in and carrying Jethro's leaning weight as he looked at Llassar.

"Didn't you mention a feast of sorts?"

Llassar smiled softly, nodding. "I'm glad to be the first of your siblings to welcome you into the family. I don't know anything about life or death--all I know is the ways of the harvest, that food and family binds people together, and that a quiet life of industry and laughs and feasts and family is one well-lived. I have a feeling about you, Jethro; I think you'll do a good job digging the graves of those who need to move on."

Llassar's smile then becomes somewhat melancholy... "A feast indeed--for we have lost a sister and gained a brother, and such events need to be marked. Two feasts, perhaps. A quiet one now, in the city, and a large one later, to which all my family will be invited." The crop god stands. "Feel free to go anywhere you want in my city, or the lands of the Tatanka. We are a peaceful people; no one will trouble you... except to perhaps stay and enjoy their hospitality. I expect that after people learn you are my relative, it may be harder to find time alone... ah, but anyway, I have a feast to set up! Make sure you're still in the city three days from now--everything will be ready by then."

Originally Posted by The_Snark

Of the First Killing-Saints

Here is a thing that began to happen in the lands of the Tatanka thirty years past—

If you leave your village and walk into the wilds to the north and east, where the beastmaster tribes and the beach people live, you may meet a man with red and violet eyes. Maybe it will be a woman instead, it doesn't matter. He will have bare feet, and wear only grey, and he will be smiling. This is how you will recognize them.

If you are lucky, he will offer to share a meal and a fire with you for a night. If you are unlucky, he will have a weapon in his hand, and he will try to kill you.

They don't hate you, you understand. To them killing is just like boasting and telling jokes around the fire, or challenging someone to a swimming contest: a way to pass the time, test themselves, and remind the world of its transience. Sometimes people die for no good reason! Nothing lasts forever!

This is what they are trying to tell the world, although it isn't working so well because most people are too busy dying to listen. They are very good at killing. They don't know what mercy is, and aren't interested in learning. They aren't afraid of death—not for themselves, and not for other people.

It is important not to run away when you see them, because like dogs they will feel compelled to give chase, and that will likely end badly for you. Don't look too afraid, or they may take pity on you and decide to free you from the burden of fear by killing you. Just smile right back, and you will have a chance—or carry a weapon, and hope that you are good enough.

They aren't all bad news. They are good company when not trying to kill you, provided you do not expect anything more than a night of merrymaking. They like underdogs; if you are losing a fight then they may join in on your side, to make things more sporting. And if you should find your soul beset by foul magics intent on trapping it, or hounded by strange beasts in the Lands Beyond, oh! Oh, then you are fortunate indeed, for these are the warrior-saints of lost Avyra, blessed and cursed by her sister of the red hand, and they tolerate no slight to the Great Wheel.

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1 major act to create a monster race of sorts, the killing-saints or red wanderers or whatever people feel like calling them (they have no name for themselves). This was something hi-mi-tsu and I had worked out for a ceremony a while back—I don't want to just let the concept go, so I'm going to go ahead and retroactively place this before Avyra vanished/died.

The first killing-saints were made from the warriors who accompanied Nieve into the Quiet Lands. Jubilant at the discovery that there would be another life after death, they offered their services to Avyra, and were accepted. They were taught the paths to and from the world of the dead, and their souls were altered to make them better servants. Each one retains a few hazy memories from life to life: practical skills, mostly, plus a sense of purpose. This makes all but the youngest inhumanly skilled warriors—as time passes, they have decades or even centuries of experience in battle to draw upon.

They are born among humans—in most respects they are human—but typically leave home as young adults, driven by a nagging sense of unfulfilled purpose. Memory leads them to the Quiet Lands, where they join their fellows and rediscover what they are. On occasion, they refuse this call, or an old one will decide to cast aside his duties and live in the mortal world. They will be human in the next life; the goddess of death did not want to bind them to her service unwilling. At other times, a human will seek to join them, and should they die in the goddess's service their next incarnation will find itself among the killing-saints. Thus the ranks stay full, neither growing too much nor shrinking.

In the living world they are quixotic murderers, careless of death. What sin is it to kill if their victims return to the Great Wheel to be born anew? In the Quiet Lands, however, they are guides and protectors, and they violently oppose any defilement of the immortal soul and the cycle of reincarnation.

Llassar could laugh off most things these days. The wild cats of the plains were becoming tame, the bandits throwing down their arms and joining the Tatankan spirit, the dark forests themselves seeming to recede. But the ones with red eyes, he didn't like. He didn't know what he had done wrong--what mistake he had made that his people were afflicted by this. For truly, why would someone throw away a pleasant, peaceful life of friendship and family to travel the wilds and live alone? And they were murderous. Willfully harming the defenseless and weak, which compromised the majority of Llassar's people, now that the need for warriors was seemingly dying away.

Perhaps a disease, or a curse from the forest? Llassar couldn't tell, couldn't stop it, didn't know what it was. It seemed to come from the young and restless--but that was it. And so Llassar sent a message, on his swiftest ship with his swiftest horse, to the one who knew the most about diseases and curses; his dear sister, Fayruz.

**HalfTangible** · 2012-11-07, 08:57 PM (ISO 8601)

The Beginning

This is a tale of when our people met the Masked One.
A tale of salvation.
A tale of a new beginning.
A tale of the first gifts of the Raccoon-God.

It is said that once, our people were ruled by a cruel and arrogant goddess. Her selfishness knew no bounds, and her cruelty was immense. She took everything she wanted (and many things she didn't) and slayed all who stood against her. Her hands of fire, Ice and Lightning held sway over all of our people, and our misery was unending.

One day, the being we would come to call the Masked One slew our evil mistress. He and the Violet Serpent came to us after the defeat of our foe. He took the form of a raccoon, and she the form of a snake. Our lord spoke thusly:

You have been freed by the paw of Ouran and the fangs of Sihlk. Said he. I do not relish the chance to rule you, but you need guidance in these dark times. Let my power be beneficial, make yourself useful, and we shall prosper for all time.

Our immediate reaction was to attack him.

He and his friend spent the rest of the day and part of the night avoiding our spears and blades. We tired long before either of them did, and they alighted on the ground, smiling. They promptly told us to go to bed, and try again to kill them tomorrow if we really wanted to. We chose not to.

Ouran, our lord and master, began to learn everything he could about our culture, and he was pleased. What precisely he changed about our culture has been lost to the winds of time at the time of writing, but many tales of the changes he granted unto us are recorded herein.

They may even be true.

Ascension

Namid was a great huntress of the Tribe. It was said she could hit a hummingbird at 80 yards, and that she could gain more meat from one rabbit than another hunter could get from a wolf. She was as silent as the owl, as clever as fox and strong as an elk. But Namid had no tongue, and so could not speak. Because of this, she was lonely. However, our lord, it seems, took mercy on her.

One day in the forest, she came upon a massive deer as black as night. As she had many times before, she crept upon it, as silent as could be. As she nocked an arrow, however, the deer turned and a wide grin split across it's face. Namid was startled and jumped, and so the deer ran from her. She pulled out her dagger and chased it.

For a day and a night she chased this one deer. It ducked and weaved through the trees, just barely keeping ahead of her. She grew frustrated with this creature that eluded her so - it was fast enough to stay just within sight but too agile to catch.

As the sun broke over the horizon once more, and Namid began to tire, she discovered that the deer had come to a field of flowers. It could not turn, or she would catch it. It broke into a full run, and Namid saw that it had been toying with her all along, for this stag was as swift as the wind. She nocked an arrow and quickly fired it, pierceing the animal's hide. The stag fell over, and she was on it quickly. Exhausted from her chase, she paused and knelt next to the black stag. She sat there for a time, looking at her prize. The stag was massive, and could feed her village for a long time.

The stag raised it's head and said, I do not wish to die. Why are you going to kill me?

Namid's eyebrow cocked with mild surprise at the talking stallion, but she said nothing. She opened her mouth and showed the stag her tongue was missing.

You gave your all for this hunt, and could barely keep up with me. In the end, you won because of a field of flowers. I could've kept running for days. The stag told her. If you allow me to live, I shall teach you to run as I can. I shall teach those of your village who can prove themselves worthy.

Namid agreed, and as she removed the arrow, the Stag suddenly revealed itself to be the Masked One, Ouran. She fell to her knees, for she saw who he was immediately, and bowed.

You have earned this power. He placed a paw against Namid's power. You shall be marked as one of my champions. You shall be a Shapeshifter, a Hero, Exalted above your kind. Let your face and skin be marked, and the world shall know you are of my kin and power.

And from Ouran's paw spread silver markings that wrapped around Namid's body. When Ouran pulled his paw away, she was bathed in silver light, and a black mask, like the raccoon's, had formed on her face. A raccoon tail now grew from her backside. On her forehead was a full, silver circle, glowing brightly in the night. She looked in a stream running through the meadow and saw her changed form reflected there. She gasped with amazement, as Ouran smiled behind her.

When you tell others of this, tell them I shall only grant this power to those that catch the stag.

But lord, how shall I- BY THE STARS!! Namid exclaimed, finding her tongue now worked.

Be warned: you shall be strongest when you are silent, for that is how you learned to live and fight. Go now, my chosen. The black stag shall return.

And so Namid became the first of the Star Dancers. She lead a life of plenty, wisdom, and strength. She learned how to shift her shape, as her master did, and knew three forms: her human form, a raccoon, and massive beast-woman form she only used for battle.

She was beloved by her village and others, and others tried to find and hunt the stag they knew would grant them this power. Many tried, but few actually saw the stag, and only a lucky and dedicated few could catch it.

That is the tale of the formation Star Dancers.

It may even be true.

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1 Major Act: Alter Existing Race
3/3/1
-1/0/0
2/3/1

The Star Dancers are a group of humans, given a small measure of Ouran's power. While not as powerful as an exarch or a demigod, they are far stronger than an ordinary mortal, and can shift their shapes into that of a raccoon or a 'warform' - essentially a beast-man. Ouran grants this power by turning into a stag as black as midnight and making the chosen hunt him down. Why? Because he likes screwing with people.

No, seriously. He's just doing the chase for fun.

(I wanted to make them exarchs but thought using a major act to create an exarch every time I wanted one of these guys would cheapen them)

And yes, these stories are all going to end with an acknowledgement that they MIGHT be true, implying that many of the stories are made up or significantly changed over time.

**Bryn** · 2012-11-08, 09:05 PM (ISO 8601)

Character sheet - Setting document - Ascension index
Content note: post narrates in detail a deadly and destructive storm.

1. The First Storm
←{1}→
We are sitting at a fire in the Village of Owls. The Hearer Pan is retelling zir story from the time of storms.

1.1 The Warning
The first storm came in the autumn.

I was apprentice to the Hearer Quo – may her memories return to us – and she was teaching me the language of the owls. On the day of the storm, we had been invited to join the parliament of owls.

The owls used to hold their parliaments above this great steaming pool, wrapped in trees. At this time, the leaves had fallen so thickly that you could hardly see the water, and I think Quo ended up stepping in. The owls were quite agitated that day, by which I mean they were hooting slightly less quietly than usual, and I was soon familiar with the words for 'reckless' and 'doom us all'. And to everyone's surprise, Tell wandered in to the secret parliament meeting to share some food with us. That was embarrassing.

They were in the middle of a great asynchronous debate between today's parliament and the owls in the future. Apparently today's owls have overstepped the hunting quota, causing a prey population crash, much to the displeasure of the future owls. But midway through the opposition's speech, the Owl – the big Owl, the volcano – interrupted from about a day in the future.

"A storm is coming." she said. "You will retreat to high ground, and some of you will die, or you will stay in your valley, and all of you will. The first option would seem best, in my view. Apologies for the late notice."

There was silence as we all just sat there and processed that. Quite understandably, the owls pretty much all flew off at once.

We had no such luxury, but as soon as Tell understood the Owl's message, she was off into the forest canopy to make a dash for the kite tower...

1.2 Communication
The branch flexed underneath her, and rather alarmed, Tell jumped off it, dislodging a colourful blue magpie. Ignoring his protestations, she rolled into a pile of dead leaves and raced for the steep rhyolitic cliff at the foot of the kite tower. An emu ran up to join her; laughing, Tell sped up, soon outrunning it as they reached the ash piles at the foot of the cliffs.

The kite tower was not like the ones we have today. It was a fragile thing, a tiny wooden platform on four spindly little legs, perched on an old rhyolite flow above the sunrise forest. Our kites were not so large in those days, and they did not fly so high. While today's kite towers hold the kites out over the slope, where the wind is strongest, this one was really more of an observation platform to see the kites in other villages.

Tell lifted herself onto a boulder, jumped across a gap, climbed up a short slope... she was at the top! Ahead, old kite-lofter Wae was anchoring a large red box kite – a large migration sighted in the valley. She ran to the kite-lofter and delivered a slightly-garbled explanation of the Hearers' warning. The winds picked up in speed, plucking at the box kite, and almost knocking Wae off her feet.

Soon they'd woken the other kite-lofters, and seven different warning flags were rising. Evacuate! Evacuate right now! Evacuate without delay!

A storm is coming!

They waited for the answering-kite from the village, but hours later, it had not come.

We had made our way out of the parliament pool, and were running as quick as possible through the forest, but it's a long way to the village on foot. At least, if you're not Tell. We saw the kites rise above the tower soon enough.

We didn't know that the village kite-lofter Roo had fallen from his tower, that even now the healers were doing their best to save him but getting nowhere, that the secondary kite-lofter was his son and that he'd stayed by his father rather than remained in the tower.

Tell was pacing backwards and forwards at the top of the tower, staring down at the village with growing agitation. Finally, she stopped bouncing and turned to kite-lofter Wae with a slightly too large smile. "Wae... What's our biggest kite?"

It was enormous, and therefore perfect. Tell quickly explained her plan to the kite-lofter, and though Wae was sceptical, Tell insisted that they try. With Wae's help, Tell tied herself securely to the kite, and together, the kite-lofters helped Tell manoeuvre herself towards the clifftop and dropped her into the rising wind.

So we reached the top of a ridge, and we could finally see the near end of the village – and we couldn't see an answering-kite. Now, that was worrying.

But then the Hearer grabs me and points up to the kite-tower, and at first, well, it looked like the green diplomatics kite had gotten loose. But of course, you've heard this story before... it was Tell, riding the wind on the bottom of a kite. She swooped overhead like an albatross, diving in close to the ridge where the winds are rising. It worked. I don't know how.

I don't know how she landed, either. I bet it was painful.

1.3 The evacuation
Tell landed – painfully – in a nice, thick-looking pile of leaves on top of an unpleasantly sharp rock. Cutting herself free of the kite, which soon caught in a gust of wind, she slid down the slope of the valley to arrive in the middle of a fire-pit, dripping blood. As the people hurried to surround her, she passed on the Hearers' warning.

A healer arrived swiftly to help with the wound, but Tell had already left, running across the low bridges towards the next fire...

By the time we got back, night was falling, the wind was rising, and the echoes we could hear of the oncoming storm had still not started to go quiet. In the last of the light, we saw it: a great mass of clouds in the far distance, crossing the sea far faster than any storm I'd ever seen. Thankfully, at that point we'd almost emptied the village, and we had a long stream of people climbing up the Second Owlet. The hunters were home and we hoped to set up tents in the shelter of the hill, weighed down heavily with rocks...

In those days, we had yet to build the high bridges, and as we left the village, the lands near the river became so churned up and muddy that not everyone could cross them. I saw Tell again, then, carrying an old man away from the river (he was having a great time being carried at Tell speeds). She joined us then, and she looked very, very tired. And then she told me that the canoes were still out at sea, caught in a fierce current, and that the Feathered Gang were conducting a ritual and refusing to leave until it finished, and even that lower down the slopes, a landslide had collapsed on a cluster of houses, trapping the occupants.

Quo did not look happy about the Feathered Gang, so she set off to have a word with them. I didn't think I'd be much help (the Gang hated me once! Yes, really.) Tell asked me if the wind would tell me where the canoes went ashore and ran off to see about freeing the people trapped in the houses.

It was hard to hear much over the storm at that point – though it still hadn't hit, its echoes filled the future-wind. It was already a strange... all other storms leave echoes many weeks in advance, but not this one. Still, I'd fished before, and I knew the canoe-flutes...

The landslide had forced the river out of its banks, filling the whole floor of the valley with a shallow flood; Tell splashed into it and ran for the houses. The wooden frames had not survived a thick layer of ash landing on them, and it was soon obvious that there were few survivors in the scattered bricks and mud. Yet here there was a voice, and Tell went to it and struggled to force open the doorway – but she was too tired. It would not budge.

If you have no flute on your canoe, you are making a grave mistake, let me tell you. The canoes turned out to have put ashore in a tiny cove surrounded by glassy boulders, where the sea had chewed into the owl – and there they were trapped. Well, if they remained there while the storm hit, they would drown. I found a team of hunters, and we gathered up some rope and ran off over the hill.

The Hearer Quo made her way up the path to the dome of the Feathered Gang, which, true to their name, was covered in feathers of every colour from every known bird. Since the storms, they've tended to keep their precious feathers indoors, but it was quite impressive! Sure enough, she found them standing on small wooden perches, speaking to each other in the language of owls. Atoz, you don't know the Gang? Well, very roughly, that story about humans once being owls... they take that rather seriously, and want to change back. There's more to it than that, but that's how the whole thing started.

Fortunately, a Hearer's word has a lot of weight with the Gang, and Quo got them out helping with the evacuation. I hear Tell arrived at that very moment, grabbed two members of the Gang, and dragged them down the hill to dig stonecarver Hali and her daughter out of the landslide...

1.4 The storm hits
A hailstone hissed out of the sky, striking Tell on the arm. "Let's go!"

With sudden vigour, Hali pulled free of her rescuers and ran for the slope, dragging her daughter. Tell turned briefly to check the Feathered Gang were free and following, then dashed after the mason as more hailstones splattered into the mud, driven near-horizontally by the screaming wind.

The crews of the canoes mostly made it – we lost someone to a broken rope. Their canoes certainly didn't. The storm surge came in and splintered them. Still, we gathered in the shelter of the First Owlet. It was rough – dead trees are scant shelter from the rain, though the canoe crews were at least prepared to be soaked. We huddled in the mud, trees tearing themselves to pieces all around, heads ducked against hail and splinters.

Hali nearly fell back into the valley when the slope started to collapse again, but Tell was ready to catch her, and pushed both mason and daughter up over the edge. She wasn't quick enough to stay up there herself, and tumbled back down into the water. The hail had quickly been replaced by rain, falling so thickly that nothing could be seen even a few metres away, and the river was already rising.

Tell floated downstream for a while. Eventually, she hit a tree.

Quo and the Feathered Gang made it out, and they reached the others on the Second Owlet at the same time as the storm. A few tents had been erected, but the wind soon became so strong that no more could join them... and then the wind rose further still, collapsing the existing tents or tearing them apart. The people of the village might be free of the floods, but soaked and exposed to the elements, not all would make it through the night.

Soo, who held a minor position in the parliament of owls, had taken the Owl's warning to heart, and knowing that her nest was in a house near the water, perched in a tree at the top of the valley. The tree proved less stable than she'd anticipated. She ended up taking a brief dip underwater, and found herself quite unable to fly. Fearing the end, Soo clung to her tree as the waters rose.

Tell bumped into the tree, floating face-up in the water. Her face was unfamiliar, but a breathing human was excellent news, and so Soo gave her a hopefully-friendly peck. "Gah! What..." Tell rolled over and saw the owl. "Less of that, please!"

Tell trod water, looking about. Soo's tree had lodge on the village's flag-tower, but the tower looked ready to collapse at any moment. She looked at Soo, who looked back. "Well, good day! Not... the best... of circumstances.". Tell took a deep breath. "You want to die here?"

Tell indicated for Soo to climb on top of her, then winced as Soo's talons dug into her back. A peck from the owl almost caused her to roll over and submerge the owl, but after a bit more pecking, she realised that Soo was indicating that she swim right.

It was a direction.

The water grabbed at her clothes, threatening to pull her under, but she struggled on through the cold and the stinging rain. An occasional peck from Soo directed her through the increasingly thick debris. Eventually, Soo spotted a shallow depression in the bank, and frantically pecked at Tell to direct her towards it.

They reached the edge, and Tell hauled herself out of the water. She lay there for a while as Soo hopped around, shivering. But not for long...

A bright flash; thunder shook the air as a tree on the far bank met its end. Time to move. Tell struggled to her feet (which had once again become immersed in water) and offered an arm to Soo. Together, they struggled up the slope of the valley and set off for the Second Owlet.

As I gather it, the people on the Second and Third Owlets huddled like penguins in large groups under the trees, wrapping themselves around the youngest and oldest. Some found respite under a rocky shelf. Tell brought cheers when she arrived on this scene, an owl perched on her arm. She searched out Yon, and the two of them did not let go of each other for the remainder of the night.

The rains fell just as thickly until morning, interspersed with hail. The waters rose so high that in some places, they burst out of the valley and flowed down the slopes of the Owl. The winds tore down trees throughout the night, flattening large areas of the forest.

We survived.

1.5 The aftermath
The floodwaters in the valley drained out soon enough, leaving nasty stagnant pools and clinging mud on every surface. Little had survived: a few houses, almost no food – the village was due to starve. Our canoes were wrecked, the cliffsides had been scoured of eggs, and so it was down to Tell and her exhausted hunters to go out into the forests and find emus and moa for us to eat. The dead, where they were found, were nonetheless carried to the nesting-sites – it would not do to let the memories of the birds be lost in the soil and trees, even in such perilous times!

Reports from inland came in, first by kite and then by messengers walking across the wide forest. The storm, it seemed, spent most of its effort crossing the Owl and the Goose. The waters pooled in the Village of Beetles, but here, the people were safe enough on their stilts. The forest villages fared less well, but the trees provided better shelter from the rain than the open valley.

I believe some rain may even have reached the ash desert.

Yon had become profoundly puzzled in the wake of the storm, though of course she was immensely proud of her daughter for saving us all from destruction. No storm before had come with so little warning from our Owl, or indeed so fast across the sea. On the seventh day, as our stores were restored, she took up her spear once more and asked Tell to join her in climbing the volcano to get answers from the Owl directly.

But I was not there for that story, and I will let it be told by someone else.

←{1}→

**Ladorak** · 2012-11-09, 02:34 PM (ISO 8601)

Originally Posted by AntiMatter101

Frellon was slightly surprised that Carolinus had not taken as personal of role in the training of his people, but then again, Carolinus ran a whole city of people. Training them all personally was impractical, and he must have more pressing matters on his plate to deal with. This did make it more interesting, however, as this meant there was definitely more in store than a dilution of the same styles learned at the white city.

-------------------------------

The diversity of form which met Frellon’s eyes was as intriguing as it was expected. Frellon knew well that the way of the sword draws men of all kinds. Looking around, he was already sizing them up, trying to figure ahead of time who might win against who.

“I could say something, sure.”

Frellon took a brief moment to look his audience over again. Then, simply spoke his mind.

“You have all come from different walks of life. Different ancestors, with different traditions and different teachings have passed their skills to you. But here you are united under one banner; you are all here for one purpose and with one mind. Whatever happens in this tournament, I have no doubt you will honor your ancestors and your brethren alike. Now make them proud!”

A silence followed for a few seconds as the assembled crowd, eager to hear every world spilt from the mouth of this new and inspiring god, held their collective breath, awaiting any further word. Then, when it was clear Frellon would say no more, a swelling roar of approval followed. Carolinus clasped Frellon's shoulder 'Fine words brother.'

He drew Frellon apart from the gathering as the first lots were chosen. A modest dais had been set up for them, complete with sunshade, comfortable chairs and chilled wine. He sat and smiled at the avid look in Frellon's eyes, watching his brother watching the crowd, yet is was a smiled tinged with sadness, as he considered the questions that hung between him and his sibling.

The rounds were chosen by random lot, the judges drawing names from bags and calling them out. Their were a great many swordsmen assembled, so many that holding several duels at the same time was the only way to complete the tourney before nightfall.

Soon the air rang with the clash of steel. 'The later rounds will be fought one at a time, so all might enjoy, and perhaps learn from them. For the preliminary rounds though, you'll have to take them in all at once. Most of the men here would have entered knowing they had no hope of reaching the finals, that is true courage I think, truer than we, who are mighty and never know doubt in our abilities. Ah, pay attention to this one.' He pointed to one of the rings furthest away from them, where a Warden with a huge two handed blade was stepping into the square. His opponent, a wiry man whose blade was tied to a noose around his neck, already awaited him. 'Warden Hargreaves, my student's student, now one of my drill masters. More warrior than duelist I think. His opponent is one of the Harichi, I do not know his name, but all are masters of a strange style of fighting. I think you will enjoy this.'

The Harichi fighting style was indeed unusual, though Frellon was not convinced of it's effectiveness. Although typical of many fencing styles the noose tied around their necks allowed for strange tactics. Not having to fear losing their grip on their weapon had become a weapon itself, making the noose an extension of the sword. The Harichi kept Hargreaves longer blade busy by all but hurling his sword at the Warden, forcing him to bat it away. The longer heaver blade slowed the Warden, allowing the Harichi to recall his blade to his hand with a jerk of his neck, or by setting a hand to the cord, snapping it taut. This seemingly risky maneuver was repeated over and over again, revealing the years of training the Harichi had put into it's perfection.
Yet the Warden was supernaturally fast, and possessed of reserves of stamina the Harichi could not match. The battle was a long one, other duels begun and ended as Hargreaves and the Harichi battled under the blazing sun. In desperation the Harichi changed his tactics, becoming as a whirling dervish, spinning about, first in one direction then the other, allowing his blade and noose it's full extension as he swung them high and low. For a while it held Hargreaves off, then suddenly it was over. The Warden stepped in, cut the cord as it swung, caught the trailing end and jerked the Harchi from his feet as his blade went arcing through the air.

With that battle finally concluded Carolinus decided it was time to ask the first of the three difficult questions that clouded his enjoyment of this day 'Frellon... I did not come to Fayruz's aid. You did... What do our siblings think of me for this? I have had word from Haramhold. I know he judges me harshly for it, not that I blame him...' Carolinus let the words slip away, unable to speak further as his throat closed with the guilt of what he had done.

**Gengy** · 2012-11-09, 10:55 PM (ISO 8601)

Chaos and Deception (continued from here)

"That would be fantastic of you, my dear! There are many of my children already skilled in talking with the elements. A sort of... wild magic, I suppose. It's unfocused, but it's quite useful. If you find any volunteers who would like to learn a more focused magic, and have the aptitude for it, you're welcome to teach them!" Jongo grinned.

It was nice to be near someone from the family again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chaos and Domination (continued from here)

"What do I think? Give the Kraken what it wants? Contragh, what a positively... Jongo thing to say. I'm... touched, I think. And... you've given me the last bit of my ideas that I needed. But I still will need your help." Looking down at the gauntleted hand, Jongo held tightly to her brother's power... and began.

The waves raged, and the currents pulled and pushed. Whirlpools began to form all over the Sea of Jongo, and it's protector, it's occupant for these so many years, let loose all the power and chaos that had been saved by the decades of holding the waters at peace.

Jongo could feel the power cycling through the Sea, his home, her comfortable tranquil place filled with Father's touch. The power moved like the ebb and flow of the ocean - for that was what it was after all - and it swirled around and around, free and powerful.

Laughing with glee, Jongo dissipated.

What had once been holding Contragh's hand was now nothing more than his own gauntlet with a curious ring on one of its fingers - a ring that was positively glowing with power.

But the air - the air around Contragh - was filled with the thrum of the spark of Jongo's essence.

::There is so much to do, Bunny:: Jongo's voice cheerfully chirped in Contragh's mind. ::We're going to create and obfuscate everything, all at once. It will be a great trick on the whole Disk! Tell me, brother, how would you conquer a whole ocean, if you had to?::

-----

Contragh stared at the Band of Chaos, holding his own hand up as he felt the very being of Jongo float around him. It felt oddly... overbearing. Even for the God of Overbearing-ness, having Jongo completely engulfed around him felt... wrong. Contragh muses, rubbing his chin with the Jongo Ring finger "How would I conquer an ocean? That is quite a feat, even for me. The oceans are so free and ever moving. Like building Pillars made of sand. If I had to conquer an ocean for myself I would merely still the waters, kill all that lies within, and raise what remains to act as sentinels as I slowly creep out from it's heart and take it bit by bit...."

He stares into the abyss of the bottom of the ocean, his face turning grim for a moment. Contragh tilts his head up, snapping away from the thought "Of course that would ruin the whole point of controlling an ocean for you, so instead I would create small pockets at the outskirts. Little areas that give away prime places to commit destruction and malevolence. Wounded animals, boats with a few survivors, those sorts of things. Only to have my brutal guardians lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce and tear apart anything that takes the bait. I cannot personally control everything that comes in, but I can make sure that what comes in is of a morality suitable for your children."

-----

::Well. I don't want anything to die, not if I can help it. I was thinking something a bit different. This place... I told you. It's peaceful. Father made it that way. I don't want to change that, if I can. But if we did change something so that it protected its own peace? If I created a place where the chaos - the natural, uncontrollable, the free - chaos of the Disk could hold sway, and then you tied it down, contained it, we could... give it what it wants.:: Jongo's essence flickered, and began to spread out again, his consciousness opening itself more and more to the Sea of Jongo.

Thrumming from the gauntlet, the Band of Chaos tooted a note of discord, and it was comfortingly off key.

::Yes. We'll twist it. It's... not as nice as I'd like. But for anyone who comes here to hurt my family... they don't deserve nice. Think, Bunny. Think hard. How would you, if you were forced to, create so many of your Snaggle-tooth friends?::

-----

"Well... to be honest with you Sister I do not think it, I do. When I first created the Revenants I felt a little bit of me take over and show it's true self. It is still a part of me, yet it feels.... wrong at times. Still, it has it's uses and it is has yet to prove dangerous to any of us. Here, allow me to show you." Contragh lurched forward, his chest pounding as he groaned and his eyes rolled backward.

If the god wasn't in pain, then he was doing a damn good job of acting like he was. He began to shake violently as his head shivered, his mouth gagging on something before a flow of the Dark Energy that made the original Soul Pool forced its way free. It pierced its way into the water until it finally rested, floating not too far away from the two gods. It didn't seem complete however, it's state malleable to those of a powerful enough will. Small dark tendrils began to extend from it as it writhed in the water, slowly sinking from the sure weight of the energies that it was made up of.

Picking himself up slowly Contragh waves a hand at the black mass weakly, not having fully recovered from the experience "And then I would shape it. Give it the task of drawing in any malevolent beings to empower itself and make more Snaggle-Tooths. Give it a bit of my greed for conquest so that it never softens and is always on the hunt. From there? Then I sink it to the bottom of the ocean to avoid any contact with creatures I don't need and just bend and fuse the bones of any creatures the Soul Pool snags into the shape of Snaggle-Tooths. Lastly I'd have a few Snaggle-Tooths prowling around and hunting any creatures they can get, kill them, and then drag them back to the pool for further consumption. That's how I'd do it."

-----

::That's... that's a bit disturbing, Bunny, to be honest. It's a little... well, warped. But... I think I can use that. Be ready, Brother. It will be up to you to craft your warped pool of disturbing-ness, and pull the unused bones of the sharks and other monsters that foolishly came to these waters to it. I'm going to pull in the Chaos that was let loose, and begin.::

Jongo's essence coalesced once more, into the now familiar form of the small human child. Contragh found the weight of his elder sibling atop his spiked shoulders, and Jongo was holding on to the Dark Halo upon his head. The Band of Chaos was once more on Jongo's finger, and it still thrummed with power. When it touched the tormented soul of Pikep, the Band of Chaos seemed to twitter and laugh a musical laugh.

The power increased, and Jongo could feel the whirlpools in the Sea of Jongo disappearing. The Chaos was being sucked back towards her. Leaning his head back in reverence, Jongo whispered, "Father, forgive me. But this must be done."

Pain. Jongo knew pain.

Chaos - unrestrained, uncontrolled, unaltered - streamed into Jongo's small form, creating a whirling path of its own. Though no water or air moved, Jongo could feel the Chaos swirling around her. And the pain was from what Jongo was asking it to do.

"I must give you your own realm. It will be a void for the living. For the malicious. For those who wish to harm me and mine. And while it will be vast, it will change little. But you may do there as you please. I will not contain you, beyond the confines of the realm."

At the promise of freedom - freedom from even the Master and/or Mistress of Chaos - the pain swirling around Jongo lessened, and every last vestige of power was sucked into Jongo's form.

The Sea of Jongo was at peace.

Jongo himself was in turmoil.

"Now, Bunny. Begin your work now. Just be ready for when I push it elsewhere. You must let go when that happens."

-----

Pikep's soul, as usual, kept on with it's unending stream of profanities and unadulterated rage when it was touched by the Band of Chaos. Silently, without need for thought or further communication with Jongo, Contragh began his grisly work.

His hands swiftly moved like a conductor instructing an orchestra, each wave of his hand causes ripples through out the water. At first it was only slight, little bones or corpses of tiny fish floating towards it, but as it became more and more powerful it absorbed the energy around it. Soon whole shark corpses began to be sucked into it, one could physically see as raw emotions were drained into it (From the surrounding ocean and from Contragh himself), and soon the water thrummed and vibrated around Contragh's dark power as the Soul Pool became Black Hole like. Devouring all within it's sight as it rapidly conquered whatever it could. Eventually one could even see Snaggle-Tooth himself fly through the water, his body spinning madly and betraying the Megalodon's calm and placid before. He soon got sucked into the hole, and it soon thirsted for more.

Contragh's power was starting to get to excited, the dark tendrils from the Soul Pool hardened and became fully substantial, and they reached out to grab and control whatever they could. All the while Contragh kept pouring more and more into the nearly developed Soul Pool, wisps of the Dark Halo could be seen leaving and entering it, a fragment of Pikep's tortured soul entered it. The Dragon of Chaos would be one of the myriad of violent and angry hunters within the Soul Pool, and Pikep raved at the prospect of venting out his violence and anger at anything within claw reach.

-----

Jongo could feel the changes happening. Contragh was doing just as he said; there was no concious thought. There was just doing. Jongo let it happen.

And waited.

And waited.

And watched.

And waited.

And then, with a single wave of his small child-like arm, twisted everything else.

It was just a small twist. It really was little more than a push. One moment everything was forming within the Sea of Jongo. The next... it was gently encouraged to be elsewhere.

But small pushes were all it took to do big things, if you have been planning things right for a long time. If you've talked things over, slowly and carefully, with the Mistress of Deception, and the living Avatar of Change. If you spent time knowing every tiny corner and fleck of seaweed within the vastness of a single Sea. If you focused an entire part of your mind, and devoted it to figuring out when the time would be right, when everything would be perfect for... when to push.

It was the wind blowing on the unfortunate soul who was looking over the edge of a building.

-----

It was the assassin's chance; the dagger's quick act in a single thrust, making an entire nation topple.

-----

It was the intake of the ocean's breath, held out in anticipation, and released in a Tsunami.

-----

It was the right word in the right ear at the right time in the right place to cause rebellion.

-----

It was Chaos.

And it was free.

It brought the undead sharks and the curiously swirling Soul Pool with it. It found a realm of empty darkness - all prepared just for it - and filled it with color and sound and smell and taste and pure raw feelings.

There was no Abyss to suck it in.

There was no Master and/or Mistress to respectfully tell it what to do.

It was the Chaos Realm.

And it was free.

It spread, it thrived, it lived, it... found the wall.

For there was a boundary. There was a border. It could not cross back to the normal realm, the Disk, without someone calling for it. And the Chaos... raged.

For all its freedom here, there was still a ruler. Still something that held it. Had conquered it. Had it confined. It still obeyed the sweet voice of the Alternator. The Master and/or Mistress. Lady Karma. Lord Namer. Born twice of Chaos; once near the prelude of all things, and once again as the chorus began.

Jongo was Chaos.

Chaos was Jongo.

Jongo felt the pain and frustration of the Chaos's confinement. And Choas felt the sadness and regret that Jongo needed this to happen.

So once again, Chaos changed. From raging and angered to content and dancing. The realm was still vast. It was free in here, just as promised.

And it would save it's distain. It would let it build. It would gather it up, and anything that dared to lay a finger on the Master's children while near the anchor to the Disk... it would suck them in. Chaos would rage. It would show them the error of their ways, and anything that was still left?

The bone-sharks could have.

Snaggle-tooth - and his ilk - became empowered, and the screams of Pikep echoed through the dead souls of the bones of the hundreds of dead sharks. They swam in the ocean of Chaos now, and they could smell blood, just beyond the border between the two realms. Unshed blood. Life.

And they wanted it. They wanted what they lacked.

Some gnashed their own teeth against each other, and many bone-sharks were destroyed in the clash of a feeding frenzy that held no food.

And the Chaos fed the Soul Well, and the Soul Well churned and turned the dust of those bone-sharks whom had been too slow into new bone-sharks. More clever. More crafty.

Still thirsting for life that they had none of.

But they could feel the gaze of their own Master. The Divine Conqueror. The Devourer of Nations. The Axe of Subdual. Lord Bunny, he who must be hailed.

And though the piece of Pikep in all of them wailed in defiance, each Snaggle-tooth could still feel the powerful will of the mind that dominated them. They could feel it in their very bones. (Which, considering that's all they were made of, said less than normal, but still more than enough.)

But though they too felt controlled, each bone-shark could still could feel the freedom of the Chaos that was now it's feeding grounds. Though they hungered for life, they could see the colors dance and sway around them full of vim and vigor. And there was the promise.

The promise that anything that was foul, anything that made a misstep, anything that threatened the Chaoslord's ilk... it would become food. It would have no choice. There were no exits for those who lacked the divine favor of the masters of this realm.

Chaos and Domination agreed.

There would be no mercy. No moment for the soon-to-be victim to realize that they had, indeed, erred. It would be swift, brutal, and bloodless.

It would be the last push the poor unfortunate soul would ever feel.

And then their bones would be ground up and churned into another abomination, ready for the next fool to make a mistake.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It's done." Jongo sighed, physically and mentally drained. The Band of Chaos was quiet for once, as Jongo carefully climbed down Contragh's armored back, and slowly grew tall enough again to be able to look into her brother's eyes.

"Thank you, Contragh. That... that took longer than I expected, but I think it went well. How do you feel?"

Spoiler

Show

Act expenditure:

1 Ceremony

Created: Chaos Realm

Tethered to the Disk by means of the calm Sea of Jongo, anyone whom raises a hand (fin/appendage/tooth) in anger against the Jongoscion or Jongo's family while within the area is sucked into the Chaos Realm.

Here, they are buffeted by pure undiluted Chaos itself.

Should they survive, there are many Megoladons - shark constructs made of bone and death, held together by chaos - which will gladly tear the life out of them.

Within the Chaos Realm, helping to cause it's "currents" is a Soul Pool. This too acts as another tether to reality; though a much darker reality. No Megoladon can truely "die" while in the Chaos Realm... only be inconvenienced. It will be reborn against, smarter, faster, stronger.

Only Jongo and Contragh can truly move freely within the Chaos Realm. Even they must do so cautiously. Jongo must avoid the more free-willed of Megoladon, and Contragh must keep control at all times.

Those of the divine spark visiting the Chaos Realm must find their own ways to deal with the constant Chaos and the threats from the undying bone-sharks.

And then they must figure a way out. The easiest, of course, is to speak with Jongo or Contragh, who have the "keys" as it were, to enter and exit freely from within the Sea of Jongo.

Any other way would take immense power, akin to that of plot.

Those visiting the Sea of Jongo will still find that it is very very peaceful.

But they may wonder at how it remains so peaceful.

**Tychris1** · 2012-11-09, 11:59 PM (ISO 8601)

Chaos and Domination

And for once, Pikep was appeased. The beast of chaos' malevolent soul was contempt to lurk and plot for the time being. Whether this was an improvement over it's constant raging and defying was not readily apparent.

Contragh rubbed his head, his eyes finally rolling back into place, before he lurched over and almost heaved across the whole ground. Refraining from his bodily function he pushes himself up to look at Jongo and says weakly "Like if all my brothers and sisters punched me in the gut, then Baz'Auran decided to sit on my head.... I'll be fine though." Ever the one not to admit to weakness Contragh pushes himself further up, regaining his stamina as he regains control over his senses.

Continuing to look at Jongo he ruffles his brothers hair and gives him a weak grin "Your land is safe now, I can assure you that. But now that the Sea of Jongo has been secured, I must do the same for my people..... Shall we depart soon, or do you wish to look over your sea one last time?" Time was important for Contragh, and the more he thought of home, the more he felt some spark lurking there. Whether it was a sibling or something far worse he couldn't tell in this weakened state, but the sooner he found out the better.

**shorewood** · 2012-11-10, 12:15 AM (ISO 8601)

Time to get supper ready. Haramhold thought as he walked into the kitchen. The cabinet was bare except for a heel of bread and a wedge of cheese. This wouldn't do at all. Grabbing a sac off the counter Haramhold left the room and headed toward the market place.

Winding his way through the afternoon crowd Haramhold approached a certain Mrs. Hensworth. A short and plump lady with blond hair and green eyes "good day mam."

"Well hello, Haramhold what a fine afternoon this has been. Haven't seen you all week unless you count yesterday which I don't of course since I was too busy preparing for my son's wedding that I didn't even have a chance to say hello. The wedding is going to be beautiful, its being held in front of the main fountain, you know the one with that little water stone you made. Speaking of stones my husband..." Mrs. Hensworth continued on like this for quite some time, a constant drone that never stopped or slow down. Haramhold often was amazed at her lung capacity, and at times doubted she needed to breath at all. But she was the best cook in the city and only her unceasing chatter prevented her shop to have a line stretching all the way to the Olm.

Waiting for an oportune moment to interrupt Haramhold said I have some relatives visiting and I was wondering if you would be willing to..." The god never got a chance to finish.

"O how wonderful dear!" Mrs. Hensworth began "Is it Jongo? I've heard wonderful things about Jongo, why just last month my grand niece had her first Jongo day celebration, she was so excited that she laughed all day. That reminds me of my friend's sister's daughter Marisa she is always fond of Jongo day, I hope they will be fast friends. And that reminds me..."

"Its not Jongo. It is The Weaver master of dreams and Silvar the shadow of Amar."

"Master of dreams you say, well that sounds silly how can one master dreams I ask you. Just the other day I had a dream about a giant chicken that layed eggs made of bread. Made of bread! If this weaver is the master of dreams than he must be a rather silly fellow. And whats with this shadow business I think that it would be rather dull being a shadow don't you. Now just hush you don't have to say anything I know you agree with me. Just like my brother, he always agrees with me and his wife had learned of my wisdom. But that was not easy I can tell you, I can remember just a week after their marriage I told her that..."

Sighing Haramhold waited patiently for Mrs. Hensworth to finish talking about her step sister, then her mother, then her second husbands friend who would later become her third husband just a month after that poor soul died from a construction accident." It became too much "Mrs. Hensworth! I have come to ask you to cater to our meals while they are here." blurted Haramhold.

"Well why didn't you say so? This won't come cheep you know. I wouldn't do anything less than my very best for three gods. A silver a day and three copper for each assistant I need."

"That's highway robbery!"

"Of course it is! But you wouldn't want your brothers to think you were skimping on them now would you? That would be awfully rude of you don't you think?"

Grumbling Haramhold reached in to his money pouch and handed her a eleven silver coins. "Come and talk to me when this runs out."

"It would be my pleasure! Now off with you I have a feast fit for the gods to prepare." shooing Haramhold out of her store she starts calling her girls to prepare a feast. Smiling the god strolled back to his tower and down into the basement where his study resided. It would take Haramhold the next two hours to collect all of the notes he had amassed over the past forty years and put them into some reasonable order. By then Mrs. Hensworth and her staff had set up the under used banquet hall and had prepared four places, plates of steaming food awaiting each arrival.

"Isn't this lovely" Amanda said as she entered the room," should I send out messengers for your brothers?
"

"Yes I think that would be for the best. Mrs. Hensworth will be all ready soon enough."

Nodding Amanda sent out two messengers to find The weaver and Silvar wherever they might have gone with a message to join them for dinner.

**TechnOkami** · 2012-11-10, 02:37 AM (ISO 8601)

The Digger and The Saints

Jethro nodded, righting himself while holding the shovel in his hands.

"Thank you, but I doubt I will remain within the city."

The old man looks outside, specifically at the forest yonder, where within lie bloodied ruby eyes.

"It seems I have some business I need to take care of in the forest. Do not worry though, I shall return in three days hence for this somber feast."

He began to step outside of the small hut, but turned one final time to Llassar.

"Thank you, for everything."

The hunched man began his long hobble, moving slowly, but eventually to the forests edge, and beyond.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

As he stepped into the forest, just out of sight of then Tatanka village, he opened the Lantern. In the shade of the trees, the lantern emitted neutral light about it, neither lighting its surroundings nor drawing out the darkness around it. In the shadows during the day, it was as close to Twilight as it could be. The energies flowed out and around Jethro, forming over his face his ancestral mask, his body enveloped once more in the energies of the dying sunset, and the birthing sunrise. He rose into the air slightly, his body in spirit moving past the physical world, slowly, until he encountered the first of the murderous Killing Saints. Without hesitation, the God smacked the Saint into the air with his shovel, pouncing down on him like a tiger where he fell, his shovel at his throat.

"Funny that I should run into one of Avyra's creations, and yet you do not know that she is dead."

**AntiMatter101** · 2012-11-10, 02:39 AM (ISO 8601)

Spoiler

Show

Originally Posted by Ladorak

A silence followed for a few seconds as the assembled crowd, eager to hear every world spilt from the mouth of this new and inspiring god, held their collective breath, awaiting any further word. Then, when it was clear Frellon would say no more, a swelling roar of approval followed. Carolinus clasped Frellon's shoulder 'Fine words brother.'

He drew Frellon apart from the gathering as the first lots were chosen. A modest dais had been set up for them, complete with sunshade, comfortable chairs and chilled wine. He sat and smiled at the avid look in Frellon's eyes, watching his brother watching the crowd, yet is was a smiled tinged with sadness, as he considered the questions that hung between him and his sibling.

The rounds were chosen by random lot, the judges drawing names from bags and calling them out. Their were a great many swordsmen assembled, so many that holding several duels at the same time was the only way to complete the tourney before nightfall.

Soon the air rang with the clash of steel. 'The later rounds will be fought one at a time, so all might enjoy, and perhaps learn from them. For the preliminary rounds though, you'll have to take them in all at once. Most of the men here would have entered knowing they had no hope of reaching the finals, that is true courage I think, truer than we, who are mighty and never know doubt in our abilities. Ah, pay attention to this one.' He pointed to one of the rings furthest away from them, where a Warden with a huge two handed blade was stepping into the square. His opponent, a wiry man whose blade was tied to a noose around his neck, already awaited him. 'Warden Hargreaves, my student's student, now one of my drill masters. More warrior than duelist I think. His opponent is one of the Harichi, I do not know his name, but all are masters of a strange style of fighting. I think you will enjoy this.'

The Harichi fighting style was indeed unusual, though Frellon was not convinced of it's effectiveness. Although typical of many fencing styles the noose tied around their necks allowed for strange tactics. Not having to fear losing their grip on their weapon had become a weapon itself, making the noose an extension of the sword. The Harichi kept Hargreaves longer blade busy by all but hurling his sword at the Warden, forcing him to bat it away. The longer heaver blade slowed the Warden, allowing the Harichi to recall his blade to his hand with a jerk of his neck, or by setting a hand to the cord, snapping it taut. This seemingly risky maneuver was repeated over and over again, revealing the years of training the Harichi had put into it's perfection.
Yet the Warden was supernaturally fast, and possessed of reserves of stamina the Harichi could not match. The battle was a long one, other duels begun and ended as Hargreaves and the Harichi battled under the blazing sun. In desperation the Harichi changed his tactics, becoming as a whirling dervish, spinning about, first in one direction then the other, allowing his blade and noose it's full extension as he swung them high and low. For a while it held Hargreaves off, then suddenly it was over. The Warden stepped in, cut the cord as it swung, caught the trailing end and jerked the Harchi from his feet as his blade went arcing through the air.

With that battle finally concluded Carolinus decided it was time to ask the first of the three difficult questions that clouded his enjoyment of this day 'Frellon... I did not come to Fayruz's aid. You did... What do our siblings think of me for this? I have had word from Haramhold. I know he judges me harshly for it, not that I blame him...' Carolinus let the words slip away, unable to speak further as his throat closed with the guilt of what he had done.

Frellon seemed to have no trouble following the dozens of small conflicts before them. At his brother’s mention, he examined the Harichi style more closely. It was certainly interesting, but it wasn’t as versatile a style as Frellon would have liked. One needed room to swing that rope, or it was pointless. Absorbed in the veritable feast of mortal skill, Carolinus’s rather serious question came as a surprise.

Caught off-guard, Frellon furrowed his brow in remembrance and hard thinking. When he finally answered, a mood of sad reflection shadowed him. “I do not blame you for the choice you made. I made a different one and suffered greatly for it. While the presence of The Protector was missed, we still prevailed. Our family survived that day, for there were many of us there. Really, I fear that the puppet-master is still out there, waiting for our guard to be lowered again. Should we have lost that day, perhaps I might have questioned your decision to remain here. Honor drew you both directions, but our family is not defenseless, while our people need guidance and shepherding; I serve as the example of that.”

“I cannot speak to the others’ minds as well as I would like. At the time, I was rather overcome with the magnitude of my error and the need to return to my people. From what I remember, Dasque was more concerned with Kalendor allowing himself to be possessed in the first place. Several of the others were focusing on rebuilding, or tracking down the Puppeteer. I don’t believe they blame you, but I don’t know how much they knew in the first place. As for Haramhold… I do not know, I remember when he first picked me up in the Green MorningStar, he was not pleased that you had decided not to come with, but you knew that already.” Frellon spoke such that his words did not travel far. This was a private matter, the mortals around them did not need to overhear.

**Gengy** · 2012-11-10, 08:29 AM (ISO 8601)

Spoiler

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Originally Posted by Tychris1

Chaos and Domination

And for once, Pikep was appeased. The beast of chaos' malevolent soul was contempt to lurk and plot for the time being. Whether this was an improvement over it's constant raging and defying was not readily apparent.

Contragh rubbed his head, his eyes finally rolling back into place, before he lurched over and almost heaved across the whole ground. Refraining from his bodily function he pushes himself up to look at Jongo and says weakly "Like if all my brothers and sisters punched me in the gut, then Baz'Auran decided to sit on my head.... I'll be fine though." Ever the one not to admit to weakness Contragh pushes himself further up, regaining his stamina as he regains control over his senses.

Continuing to look at Jongo he ruffles his brothers hair and gives him a weak grin "Your land is safe now, I can assure you that. But now that the Sea of Jongo has been secured, I must do the same for my people..... Shall we depart soon, or do you wish to look over your sea one last time?" Time was important for Contragh, and the more he thought of home, the more he felt some spark lurking there. Whether it was a sibling or something far worse he couldn't tell in this weakened state, but the sooner he found out the better.

"You have been very patient with me, Brother. Thank you. To even offer me a chance to look through my Sea one last time...? Well. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. But no. Now is not the time. Instead, give me just a moment to check on what our... creation has done. I do not know if you can sense the world like I can; but my spark of life seems to have given me a boost to my senses, and I like to check every now and then to make sure all is going well." Jongo rubbed his hands together, trying to bring life back into them.

Kicked in the gut and sat on by Baz'Auran was a pretty apt description of how Jongo felt herself. Taking a deep breath, though, Jongo peered into the mindscape.

Immediately Jongo could feel the peace and serenity that the Sea of Jongo now afforded. But behind it, like a shadow, was the darker Chaos Realm. Jongo could feel the anchor, the connection, and knew that it was strong. Knew that it would hold.

A flash to the south, and Jongo began to weep. He knew not why. Something had changed with the spark that Jongo had once thought was Avyra. It felt the same, but different. The potential was... wrong. Felt less final.

Speaking of less final... Jongo turned her gaze away from the swirling beacon of color that was Ouran. There could be no way that Ouran could be confused with anyone else within the mindscape. The little raccoon was... bright was the wrong word. He did not exude light, not like Lakespittle did. It was like a giant beacon had shot out from the ground, but instead of traveling on, it was just... present. One solid shaft of never ending light.

Jongo had spent a week getting used to it. It was still a bit... confusing.

But what was this...?

Near Butterfly's solid presence, it felt like there were several others. Rodney? The deepness of the strong colors around that power felt right, felt like Rodney, but Jongo couldn't be sure. And... there was someone else. It also felt familiar. Sort of. It was like familiarity, once removed. A close family cousin?

Still. A gathering like this? In Salus?

And Jongo hadn't been invited?

"That grassblade. I even sent diplomats to Butterfly. They could at least have..." Jongo heard the drums. She hadn't been listening right, it seemed. Change was in the air. Well, all right, no, it felt like Ouran was walking around on the ground right now, but Change was still in the air, so to speak.

But the idea... Hmmmm. Bunny may not like this. This could seem like a delay. But if we helped... or at the least, we could get Green Morningstar... Jongo mused, and suddenly opened his eyes.

"Bunny? (Hail!) I know you may not want to hear this, but I really really really really think it's important we go visit Butterfly. Like... right now. For one, you should meet your Niece. She's a sweet girl. I've been thinking that it's about time I should go say hello, see her again, maybe talk with her about her finding someone to settle down with, if she hasn't found someone herself. For another, like I told you, Butterfly has made a ship - and I helped -so we could borrow it if what he wants to do doesn't work. But if it does work... Well. If it's what I think it is, it changes everything. It's... I can't... The words. They... arghh. It's like you trying to explain tactics to me. Just... just trust me. I have to be there. It shouldn't take a day, maybe two, once we get there. It probably would take a month if Butterfly has his way, working to get everything just right. And if we get Green Morningstar - that's the ship - we'll make up the lost time. So. Can we go? Please? Please? Please? Please?"

All Jongo's aches and pains seemed to disappear at the prospect of seeing everyone again, and she became a small child once again, jumping up and down at Contragh's leg, tugging and excited.

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@shorewood - what happened to the Jongoscion that showed up, lol?

**Tychris1** · 2012-11-10, 01:00 PM (ISO 8601)

Contragh stood there, looking at Jongo like a father looks at his son (Despite the age difference). He looked towards the Sea of Jongo, raising his axe slowly until it reached it's zenith. He looks back at Jongo and says ".... I trust that in your knowledge of our siblings, as you have clearly spent more time with our family then I have. That is a problem I should not have let happen. I will go there with you Jongo, my Wraiths shall vanguard my arrival and Miranda will ensure that I can take Green Morningstar as insurance.... No matter the cost." The last bit held a tinge of danger to it, but surely Contragh wouldn't think of violently seizing something from his siblings? Right?

With his axe held unwaveringly the Wraiths who were once scattered and unorganized quickly bent back into military shape, lining up in rows and unholstering their weapons as they looked upon there Lord God. Miranda took to the front, the teeth of several sharks embroidered into a necklace and given to her by someone. Pointing his axe at Miranda he says "We are traveling to Salus to see if we can possess one of their ships and potentially see what Jongo believes to be an important part of history. You and 10 other Wraiths shall take the lead, wisked forth by my power, and shall insure that the ship Green Morningstar is operational and capable of military use. I want a full report of the application of Wraiths and Revenants to the ship, how quickly it can move, the amount of weapons it can hold, it's durability, if it can be improved, and any or all magical enchantments that seem to be placed on it. You know your duty, now head out." He swipes his axe downward as Miranda and 10 Wraiths near him bow to one knee. Contragh's dark energy pulsing through it as it surges forward and swallows the 11 Wraiths whole. Seconds later it disperse' and the undead angels are not to be seen.

Contragh's body contorts and bends as he resumes his draconic form, his ragged mouth uttering "Let us go. I have faith in Miranda's skill at getting what she wants. In the meantime Jongo, I have a question to ask of you." His long leathery tattered wings begin to flap slowly as he rises into the air, the Angels of Undeath joining him towards the sky as The Axe of Subdual waits for his sister.

**Ladorak** · 2012-11-10, 01:47 PM (ISO 8601)

Spoiler

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Originally Posted by AntiMatter101

Frellon seemed to have no trouble following the dozens of small conflicts before them. At his brother’s mention, he examined the Harichi style more closely. It was certainly interesting, but it wasn’t as versatile a style as Frellon would have liked. One needed room to swing that rope, or it was pointless. Absorbed in the veritable feast of mortal skill, Carolinus’s rather serious question came as a surprise.

Caught off-guard, Frellon furrowed his brow in remembrance and hard thinking. When he finally answered, a mood of sad reflection shadowed him. “I do not blame you for the choice you made. I made a different one and suffered greatly for it. While the presence of The Protector was missed, we still prevailed. Our family survived that day, for there were many of us there. Really, I fear that the puppet-master is still out there, waiting for our guard to be lowered again. Should we have lost that day, perhaps I might have questioned your decision to remain here. Honor drew you both directions, but our family is not defenseless, while our people need guidance and shepherding; I serve as the example of that.”

“I cannot speak to the others’ minds as well as I would like. At the time, I was rather overcome with the magnitude of my error and the need to return to my people. From what I remember, Dasque was more concerned with Kalendor allowing himself to be possessed in the first place. Several of the others were focusing on rebuilding, or tracking down the Puppeteer. I don’t believe they blame you, but I don’t know how much they knew in the first place. As for Haramhold… I do not know, I remember when he first picked me up in the Green MorningStar, he was not pleased that you had decided not to come with, but you knew that already.” Frellon spoke such that his words did not travel far. This was a private matter, the mortals around them did not need to overhear.

Carolinus was thankful for the low pitch of his brother's voice, he was as a symbol of the unity of Markien, his image the thing that kept a hundred petty conflicts from boiling over into bold action. It was an image he could not allow to be tarnished. Frellon had learned subtly, it became him more than a younger Carolinus would have expected.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, dreading the answer to his next question. Yet he had to ask, living in ignorance was no defence against reality 'Thank you brother, with utmost sincerity thank you. I feared I had lost the love of my siblings...'

He trailed off into silence, steeling himself for the looming question. Below a man with two blades defeated a Warden, a victory met with a roar of approval from all assembled, Wardens included. A woman with a curved blade whirled around her opponent, a constant flashing under the high sun. A Harichi won within a handful of seconds.

'When you were at the gathering at the Olm... Did any of our brothers and sisters have news from the White City, of Father or the black thing that wrapped him,' he paused, suffering a heaviness on his heart which had always been there, yet now was keenly felt. His next words were a choked whisper 'Of Ciero?' Feeling a dampness he put his hand to his cheek, astonished to find tears on his fingers. He turned his head to hide his weakness from the crowd, smoothing the salt water between finger and thumb as if he had never seen his own tears before

**TheDarkDM** · 2012-11-11, 05:49 AM (ISO 8601)

Discord and Rhyme

Melos cocked his head at Sonata's question, his smug smile never wavering.

"As I said, child, I need your help to open a door. Do that, and your debt shall be repaid."

He turned away from her, gesturing across the now empty plain to a narrow path up the nearby peak.

"Come. As luck would have it, our destination isn't far."

Melos began a leisurely stroll towards the path, clearly confident that Sonata would follow. And indeed, despite her better judgement, whatever strange power his oath held compelled her to catch up to him. They walked for hours, climbing tumbledown slopes and craggy fissures, until all semblance of a path disappeared and the only thing leading them was Melos' unwavering stride. Eventually they came to a valley that cut into the side of the mountain, so barren and small as to be nigh-indistinguishable from the rock face. There, he stopped, and turned back to Sonata with that same smile.

"Brace yourself, child."

Turning back to the face of the mountain, he opened his mouth and uttered but two syllables. Two syllables, yet they rent the air like the thunder of Kraken's storm, echoing in the confined space until it seemed the very Disk itself were ending. The wall of rock in from of them was turned to dust in an instant, billowing over them like ash, before being swept away in the aftershocks. As the dust cleared, what remained was a far cry from the dingy mountainside. Behind the craggy rock and some sorry ferns stood an impossibly smooth wall of grey-white stone, without seam or scar to betray how it had come to be there. Yet across its face flowed a mural of incredible beauty, a shining plain filled with towers of immense height. And at its center, dwarfing all around it, was a single monolithic spire, it's shining point glinting from midnight black to dazzling white.

"There is your door, child. Simply touch it, and your part in this will be over."

A Blizzard at the Gate

Even as Carolinus and Frellon discussed old grudges and old hopes, a storm began to boil on the horizon. Slate grey clouds emerged from a pristine sky, and beyond Markien's borders snow began to fall months before its seasonal arrival. Such a disastrous turn in the weather would have been cause enough for alarm, but the blizzard did not remain on Markien's border - the blizzard moved, with such speed and purpose as to give no doubt that it was driven by some will. The storm cut a swath miles long towards Wardstone, until its approach was finally noticed by the great tournament. One by one, combatants paused, the clash of steel replaced by the clash of thunder and hail, as the storm came to a halt at the very edge of Markien. Within minutes, the walls of Wardstone were coated in a thick rime of frost, and the winds of winter blew through the courtyard.

The storm hovered for long moments, its roiling face almost indistinguishable through the driving snow, before a great roar came echoing from its heart. It was a sound that could never come from a storm, the cry of some great beast let loose, and as it echoed through the fortress a white blur flashed through the snowy veil. Streaking through the sky, it left a trail of freezing mist in its wake, before it landed hard upon the sands of the tournament grounds. The first frozen comet was quickly followed by four lesser comets which came to rest behind it, blanketing the warriors of the tourney in a thick fog. Yet as swiftly as the comets had fallen, they were followed by a blast of arctic wind, blowing the fog away and revealing five figures kneeling in the arena. Slowly, the first rose to its feet, revealing a towering man so pale that he could almost have been carved from snow. Despite his unearthly pallor, his build was that of a warrior, his bare arms rippling with well honed muscles. The rest of him was covered in leather armor as black as frostbite, trimmed in white fur. Wrapped around his chest was a cloak of the same fur, seemingly a single unstitched pelt, the nature of which evident in the great white lion's head which was draped over his left shoulder, sapphires in its eyes. His own hair was near the same snowy white, tied into a tail by a simple leather slip. The face was strong and unyielding as a mountain, and despite his painfully blue eyes Frellon and Carolinus recognized Lossethir standing before them.

"Brothers! How could you throw a party without inviting me?"

Lossethir spread his arms in greeting, and as he stepped forward his retinue rose. All four were women, stunningly beautiful, their skin seemingly hewn from alabaster, their white hair flawless and gleaming. Golden eyes followed Lossethir's movements with a zealous intensity, and as one they fell into step behind him. They wore armor similar to their master, yet it seemed protection had been a secondary concern in its design. The cleavage alone made it clear that Lossethir had a hand in it, but though Carolinus' warriors scoffed, the swords at the womens' sides were real enough.

The Wayward Child

Anjo didn't know how long it had been since he'd been taken. Days, at the very least, since the slithering shadow had burst through the coral and caught him in its jaws. Even with all that Creator-Father-Mother had taught them, he'd never imagined something so horrible could exist, all scales and fins and teeth. Yet miraculously, Anjo was still alive. Alive. In the dark. Really, if given the chance he might have preferred to be dead. After all, wasn't Creator-Father-Mother always saying how Death was the last great change? That might have been interesting, at least. This waiting was just boring. And cold. Come to think of it, he didn't remember the last time he'd eaten, and he was getting a little hung-

In an instant, the black void was filled with light, four monstrous orbs of yellow-green fire annihilating the darkness in front of him. Anjo hadn't realized there were four suns, let alone four suns hiding in the ocean! He smiled in excitement, thinking of what a marvelous story this would make, before the suns moved, shining down on him. Only then did Anjo realize they were eyes, and his smile disappeared.

My...child. What monstrous changes has that demon wrought? What has been done to you?

For the first time in recorded history, a Jongoscion found itself at a loss for words, though terror was more than sufficient justification. However, slowly, Anjo found his voice.

"I'm n-not sure what you mean. Creator-Father-Mother would never let any demons-"

Creator!?

It seemed the very ocean shook with Kraken's fury at the question.

That cancerous whelp dares name itself Creator after mutilating my children!? After robbing you of your sublime form and infecting you with its monstrous chaos!? What arrogance! But do not fear, my child. You shall not be forced to endure this torment for much longer.

"No, please, you don't understand! Creator-Father-Mother blessed us with a gift!"

And this is what pains me the most. You have been so twisted by that creature that you cannot see the base disfigurement it has wrought. Your progenitors were born in the dawn of this world, sculpted lovingly to fill your niche in the great cycle. But now? You have been torn from your place, fractured until your own bodies are alien to you. You fit nowhere that is not ordained by that creature that calls itself a god. But fear not, my son - you shall be avenged.

Anjo never saw the tendril that closed around him, barely felt the crushing grip that reduced even his malleable form to nothingness. All he saw in those final moments were Kraken's eyes, and the immense grief lying behind the great beast's wrath.

**Erik Vale** · 2012-11-11, 08:52 PM (ISO 8601)

You Will Not Move
"The thing about the god of travel is, if he wills you to not move, you will not move. You will no longer travel, just sit, unmoving. He will simply abscent Travel from you, and take his pressence from you. That, is why he will always win against a mortal."
Someone who royally pi***d off Kalandor.

And now someone else would be bound.

Beating Azath to the Wall, Kalandor's stave suddenly splays, as if it had hardened roots, which fit tightly against the form Azath's form, and tightened.
And he willed him not to move.
And lo, Azath was pinned to the wall, the only way it could be more so, was if Baz'Auran willed it.
"Stay."

Glarring into Azath's eyes, Kalandor heard words croak out.
"What.... Are.... You.... Going... To... Do... To... Me..."
"I'm going to stop you from hurting anyone. Again. Ever."
"You... Can't... Kill.. Me..."
"But if I bind you."
The tinny hint of a smile suddenly disapeared.
"You hunted people, now you will hunt something else. At others beck and Call. Azath, I bind you, that anyone who doth call thine name, thou shalt come to, as soon as the last sylable doth leave the tounge of he who doth summon. You Shall Be There. Thou shall not hunt man, but you shall hunt knowledge, seeth through their guises and into thine minds, and be the Hand that helps escape."
"Who... Are... You... To... Bind... Me..?"
"I... I am..."
And then a voice echoed out.
"Kalandor."
Outside the dream world, Scha'Mane touched Kalandor's form, and Kalandor disapeared, but with just that word, it was so, Kalandor's will made manifest.
And the first Creature of Summoning was created, to the sounds of a screaming dreamspirit.

And a loud ping would occur there, the sort for devine radars, and the Spirit who was watching let the world disolve, in thouhgt and confusion.
"Did he not know who he was?"

---

The Child and the Father

Kalandor's eyes flared open to view the eyes of one of his sons, something he saw which very few could ever in this state.
He stared into the eyes of Scha'Mane.
"I know you."

**AntiMatter101** · 2012-11-11, 09:05 PM (ISO 8601)

Spoiler

Show

Originally Posted by Ladorak

Carolinus was thankful for the low pitch of his brother's voice, he was as a symbol of the unity of Markien, his image the thing that kept a hundred petty conflicts from boiling over into bold action. It was an image he could not allow to be tarnished. Frellon had learned subtly, it became him more than a younger Carolinus would have expected.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, dreading the answer to his next question. Yet he had to ask, living in ignorance was no defence against reality 'Thank you brother, with utmost sincerity thank you. I feared I had lost the love of my siblings...'

He trailed off into silence, steeling himself for the looming question. Below a man with two blades defeated a Warden, a victory met with a roar of approval from all assembled, Wardens included. A woman with a curved blade whirled around her opponent, a constant flashing under the high sun. A Harichi won within a handful of seconds.

'When you were at the gathering at the Olm... Did any of our brothers and sisters have news from the White City, of Father or the black thing that wrapped him,' he paused, suffering a heaviness on his heart which had always been there, yet now was keenly felt. His next words were a choked whisper 'Of Ciero?' Feeling a dampness he put his hand to his cheek, astonished to find tears on his fingers. He turned his head to hide his weakness from the crowd, smoothing the salt water between finger and thumb as if he had never seen his own tears before

Lost Family

Frellon shook his head.

“None of us have had any word from the white city. Ciero is likely still up there with Father.”

Frellon turned his gaze upwards to the city in the sky, still as bloody red as the day they Fell.

“I still don’t know what to make of that. If that creature had won, I doubt it would have stayed in the city, it would have followed us, and we would not be alive. Perhaps Father bested it, then, seeing as our test had begun already, let it continue. Or perhaps they still struggle up there. I wish I knew, but there’s nothing we can really do about it until we find a way back home.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(ooc: you can ask the third question before he arrives if you’d like.)

Spoiler

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Originally Posted by TheDarkDM

A Blizzard at the Gate

Even as Carolinus and Frellon discussed old grudges and old hopes, a storm began to boil on the horizon. Slate grey clouds emerged from a pristine sky, and beyond Markien's borders snow began to fall months before its seasonal arrival. Such a disastrous turn in the weather would have been cause enough for alarm, but the blizzard did not remain on Markien's border - the blizzard moved, with such speed and purpose as to give no doubt that it was driven by some will. The storm cut a swath miles long towards Wardstone, until its approach was finally noticed by the great tournament. One by one, combatants paused, the clash of steel replaced by the clash of thunder and hail, as the storm came to a halt at the very edge of Markien. Within minutes, the walls of Wardstone were coated in a thick rime of frost, and the winds of winter blew through the courtyard.

The storm hovered for long moments, its roiling face almost indistinguishable through the driving snow, before a great roar came echoing from its heart. It was a sound that could never come from a storm, the cry of some great beast let loose, and as it echoed through the fortress a white blur flashed through the snowy veil. Streaking through the sky, it left a trail of freezing mist in its wake, before it landed hard upon the sands of the tournament grounds. The first frozen comet was quickly followed by four lesser comets which came to rest behind it, blanketing the warriors of the tourney in a thick fog. Yet as swiftly as the comets had fallen, they were followed by a blast of arctic wind, blowing the fog away and revealing five figures kneeling in the arena. Slowly, the first rose to its feet, revealing a towering man so pale that he could almost have been carved from snow. Despite his unearthly pallor, his build was that of a warrior, his bare arms rippling with well honed muscles. The rest of him was covered in leather armor as black as frostbite, trimmed in white fur. Wrapped around his chest was a cloak of the same fur, seemingly a single unstitched pelt, the nature of which evident in the great white lion's head which was draped over his left shoulder, sapphires in its eyes. His own hair was near the same snowy white, tied into a tail by a simple leather slip. The face was strong and unyielding as a mountain, and despite his painfully blue eyes Frellon and Carolinus recognized Lossethir standing before them.

"Brothers! How could you throw a party without inviting me?"

Lossethir spread his arms in greeting, and as he stepped forward his retinue rose. All four were women, stunningly beautiful, their skin seemingly hewn from alabaster, their white hair flawless and gleaming. Golden eyes followed Lossethir's movements with a zealous intensity, and as one they fell into step behind him. They wore armor similar to their master, yet it seemed protection had been a secondary concern in its design. The cleavage alone made it clear that Lossethir had a hand in it, but though Carolinus' warriors scoffed, the swords at the womens' sides were real enough.

Family Found

When the fog cleared, Frellon would be seen on his feet with his blade at the ready. Resting in Markien had done wonders for him; no longer did the weariness of travel and hardship drag upon his form. Frellon wore simple garb, but it was his form that displayed his godhood. Frellon's build was reminicent of many breeds of warrior. He radiated strength, his power overflowing into most things he did. His eyes glinted dangerously at these five figures. A threat upon the doorstep of his brother had him on his feet, ready to carve a bloody swathe. Yet upon realizing who it was, all thoughts of impending combat evaporated.

“Lossethir! You live!” Frellon ran forward to embrace his brother, his joy unrestrained.

“Ha! You did more than survive the Fall, you thrive! Look at you! I always knew there was a warrior in there somewhere- you found him!”

**HalfTangible** · 2012-11-11, 10:24 PM (ISO 8601)

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This scene doesn't do much besides reinforce the culture of the Tribe and give it an actual name, but i like it, so I'll post it up anyway.

I took some liberties with the remote sensing ability - hope they're okay.

Mindscape

The god of change had shut his eyes, but he saw so much more now than he ever had before.

To Ouran's mind, the world looked like a tapestry of bright, glowing blue lines, spread across a tapestry of deepest black. There was power in the world, oh there was so much power... He could great waves of change, great ripples of strength and will... He saw lines connecting people, places and things... At some places, those lines intersected and swirled, danced and entertwined like lovers in the twilight. At the center of some of those lines, stood bright stars in shining colors. Some were constant in form, others in colors. Some were constant in no thing, and continually danced like blades of grass or crested like waves on the sea.

There was a light in the Sea of Jongo (he assumed it was the Sea's namesake) that defied description, constantly shifting and changing at a rate that almost shocked him. He saw bright greens, dark reds, a strange spiral shape... He saw a great white light, far away from his little forest, and it's beauty stole the breath from his lungs and brought tears to his eyes. He saw a hollow circle, whose outer edges connected to the world in a way that felt unnatural, and he felt bile rise in his throat. Another spot, that had no light, but instead pressed against his ears like a song.

With the exception of the obvious spot of light in the Sea of Jongo, it took a great deal of time before he realized they were gods, like he.

He saw their power, reflected on the tapestry of creation, and knew he was woefully weak in comparison. Jongo may very well have been the strongest god Ouran had seen, but... He shook his head and opened his eyes, allowing the beautiful tapestry to fade away. No, this was too far a distance to be sure. Trying to pick out the power of such a foe from a distance was too easy a way to unsettle himself for no good reason.

He sighed and stood, running human hands through his black hair. He smirked a bit at the braids he'd worked into them. These people had strange customs, but not bad or unpleasant ones. He felt his clothing. It was a long rectangular piece of hide tucked over a belt, so that the flaps fell down in front and behind, and he had learned that the Ulthwe (that was what the tribe called itself) found a use for every bit of the animals they killed that they could. This particular bit had been made out of a fine and thick piece of deer hide, for which he was grateful to the tribe.

Outside, the people had begun to beat their drums, and he smiled, stepping out to join in their dances. To them, he appeared as a young man with black hair and green eyes, with a group of black markings around his eyes like the raccoon. Of course, that particular feature didn't stand out so much anymore - the rest of the tribe had put on their warpaint in a way that mimicked the mask.

His first star dancer smiled as he came out. She wore a headress of eagle feathers, and lead him to the circle to the dance.

Remember - follow the beat of the drums.

I think I can handle one dance, my champion Ouran smiled at her. Too bad Sihlk chose now to visit the sea of Jongo. She would've liked this, I think.

Around a large bonfire, the god of change joined the dance of the Ulthwe people, and their songs reached into the darkness of the forest's night, lit by the light of the blood red moon.

**Ladorak** · 2012-11-12, 07:40 PM (ISO 8601)

Spoiler

Show

The third question was going to be about the ritual we've previously discussed. It can wait.

Family found

As the blizzard and mist descended Carolinus disappeared. The tear on his fingertip forgotten, though it froze to his flesh. He transformed as he stood, Carolinus, the son, the lover, the brother, evaporated into the frigid air. He stood as the White Knight of the White City, as the Watchman, as the Protector. As the first of the frozen comets hit shimmering white armour appeared about him, cloaking him from head to toe in potent and brilliant magics. In counterpoint Black Buttress flared with black luminescent upon his shield arm.

Yet a smile broke his stern features when another of his kin stepped forward to announce himself. 'Back, warriors of Markien!' Carolinus strode toward Lossethir with more reservation than Frellon, yet his joy was no less felt. He moved with measured steps, constantly aware of the weight of the blade at his hip 'This is Lossethir, he is kin to me also, a fellow son of great Baz'Auran.' He followed in Frellon's footsteps as all about him the champions of Markien fell back. He was dimly aware of the Wardens forming into formation behind him, dimly aware of the questing and curious probing of the Stoneward beneath their feet. 'Lossethir, I bid you welcome to Markien. It is a joy to behold you again, my brother.'

**Kasanip** · 2012-11-12, 07:45 PM (ISO 8601)

Originally Posted by TheDarkDM

Discord and Rhyme

Melos cocked his head at Sonata's question, his smug smile never wavering.

"As I said, child, I need your help to open a door. Do that, and your debt shall be repaid."

He turned away from her, gesturing across the now empty plain to a narrow path up the nearby peak.

"Come. As luck would have it, our destination isn't far."

Melos began a leisurely stroll towards the path, clearly confident that Sonata would follow. And indeed, despite her better judgement, whatever strange power his oath held compelled her to catch up to him. They walked for hours, climbing tumbledown slopes and craggy fissures, until all semblance of a path disappeared and the only thing leading them was Melos' unwavering stride. Eventually they came to a valley that cut into the side of the mountain, so barren and small as to be nigh-indistinguishable from the rock face. There, he stopped, and turned back to Sonata with that same smile.

"Brace yourself, child."

Turning back to the face of the mountain, he opened his mouth and uttered but two syllables. Two syllables, yet they rent the air like the thunder of Kraken's storm, echoing in the confined space until it seemed the very Disk itself were ending. The wall of rock in from of them was turned to dust in an instant, billowing over them like ash, before being swept away in the aftershocks. As the dust cleared, what remained was a far cry from the dingy mountainside. Behind the craggy rock and some sorry ferns stood an impossibly smooth wall of grey-white stone, without seam or scar to betray how it had come to be there. Yet across its face flowed a mural of incredible beauty, a shining plain filled with towers of immense height. And at its center, dwarfing all around it, was a single monolithic spire, it's shining point glinting from midnight black to dazzling white.

"There is your door, child. Simply touch it, and your part in this will be over."

Sonata and Melos

Sonata looked up at the beautiful mural. One of the wonders of the world, that she didn't know. But there were many things she didn't know. Such as [The First Song] and what had happened. The oath she was bound made her to walk to the wall. What was this mural of? What is it a door to go to? She raised one hand and touched the painting.

**THEChanger** · 2012-11-12, 09:23 PM (ISO 8601)

Salus-The Back Streets

Haramhold's messanger wandered through the streets, searching for The Weaver. And as he did, he gazed about, marveling at the change which had overtaken the city. There was color, everywhere! And not just the old color, the blues and the greens and the whites. There were all sorts of colors. Red walls and purple columns and fountains with sworls of orange and pink. The laughter of the city, the children playing, everything seemed brighter, more vibrant, as though someone had breathed a huge gust of air into the entire city. Turning down an alleyway, the messanger saw a hooded figure who must have been The Weaver, playing a game with some children. They had painted-it must have been paint, how else could the color have gotten there-a series of boxes on the ground, and they tossed a colorful stone onto one of the squares. The Weaver laughed as his stone reached the very last square. "You see? I told you I could do it Marisa!" The Weaver hopped along the path to the stone, careful not to let even a toe outside the lines. As he made the trip back, the children clapped and laughed to see a grown man join their game. Spying the messanger, The Weaver winked at him, and knelt down in front of one of the girls.

"Today has been wonderful, Marisa. Thank you for showing me your city. And thank you for playing with me today. It's been such a long time since I've played." The girl hugged the god, and did her best to stiffle her tears-not very well, but you had to give her credit for trying. "Will we ever see you again, Rodney?" The Weaver hugged her back. "Anytime you like, dear. All you have to do is think of me before you go to sleep, and I will be in your dreams." The hug lasted a little bit longer, and then The Weaver slowly disentangled himself from the horde of children who had spontaneously joined in. Standing to his full height, he turned towards the messanger. "Haramhold has prepared dinner then? Ah, it has been a good day. I suppose it is time for us to head back, eh? Don't want to keep my brother waiting."

**Demidos** · 2012-11-13, 04:43 AM (ISO 8601)

Haramhold's other messengers wanderered far and wide, searching all the back streets and alleys, but search as they may among the bright colors, they found no trace of another god's presence - indeed, the colors were so greatly distracting that most of them stopped searching, to stare, wondering, at the glorious hues that filled their city with life and beauty. In fact, all but a couple quickly abandoned interest in the search.

Harif was lost. Almost. The roads which he was treading were rarely taken, leading to a rare section of undestroyed wall near the back of the town. The wall was an old ruin, a small piece of masonry that had not expanded with the rest of the city, for some strange reason of its own. It stood, wobbly and unsteady, still on the edge of the city. Someone would take it down soon, he was sure, for the craftsmen of Salus were clever and industrious, and would recycle the unused stone, but for the moment it still stood a little ways apart from the rest of the city. Straining his eyes in the gathering gloom, Harif thought he could make out a dark shape standing atop the wall, its back to him. Even as he watched, it raised its hand and a tendril of darkness reached out towards a nearby wall, upon which was painted a lovely mural of a stalking cat prowling through tall grass. The cat was lovingly detailed in varying hues and in a striking style, almost seeming to come to life. The tendril reached the wall, and paused, waving slightly. Then gently, almost tremulously, it touched the wall. The effects were immediate. The colors leached from the mural as it aged and cracked, and a large section immediately in front of the tendril turned to old, cracked stone as the tendril snapped back. Glancing back at the figure atop the wall, he saw it clench its hand, and then slump down on the parapet. The tendril vanished immediately.

Harif was scared, but he knew -- or rather, hoped -- that Haramhold would keep him safe. He was a great god, at least as powerful as this one. He held that thought firm in his mind as he approached the ruin and slowly mounted the steps. When he reached the top, he called to the shadow.

"Haramhold invites y-y-you to a great feast. Tonight! With dancing! And wonderful food, cooked by the best chef in the town!"

The shadow turned to look at him. As it turned, the moon caught its face, and Harif could have sworn that he saw a glimmer of a single tear lying, pearly, against the Shadow's cheek. Then its face was out of the light again, and its voice issued from the hood, quiet and stern.

"I thank you, boy. Harif. You are very brave. I can smell the fear on you like a pestilence, but you chose to ignore it. That is a noble thing."

The Shadow tilted its head.

"I will attend this feast of Haramhold's. As for you, you deserve a reward for your perseverance. Few enough would search for me, and fewer still among the delights my...brother...has created."

Moving forward, he reaches for Harif's arm, who, almost in a trance, raises it, feeling the cool pressure of the god's touch.

"This should keep you in wealth. Use it wisely."

The god looks away, and Harif steps back, relieved. Looking at his arm, he sees dark tendrils swirling onto his skin, forming strange characters. When he looks up again, the Shadow is gone.

Spoiler

Show

Infused the shapes of several of the Silviari runes onto Harif's skin, giving him the ability to add their power to items of high quality (magic items).
Soft - Ușor
Quick- Redăk
Supple -Suplă
Shrouded -Giulgiul

**Tychris1** · 2012-11-13, 10:22 AM (ISO 8601)

Outside of Salus

Miranda and her entourage surged forward from the dark blob that wisked them to Salus. Looking upon the city she scanned it's mighty walls and high ramparts. Striding forward Miranda pointed her sword to the wall and said "Come now, let us pass through these walls and find the god "Haramhold". Shouldn't be too hard to find a sibling of our lord eh?" In all honesty Miranda looked at this city as a wolf looks at a cow, savering the moment she could tear it to pieces and lay siege to such a worthy site. But this was a god, one related to Jongo and her lord and master, and so she kept her battle lust in check as they floated towards the wall.....

THUNK

.... And proceeded to smack into it. The Wraiths looked about in confusion, perturbed at their incorporealness being negated by the wall. They moved forward and tried again, but yet it seemed as if the wall cares not for there ghostly form and merely treated them like any other mortal.

Rubbing her head Miranda looked at her fellow Wraiths oddly and said "Guess we're going through the front door first.... Brutus, Cassanor, you two fly up to the top and see if there's a way in from there or if there's someone there to explain what the hell is happening with the wall. Sandrana, your with me, we take to the entrance and try our luck there. Keep your weapons close, we're not in Fex anymore and they might react hostile to flying Revenants. Do not attempt to butcher anyone, but don't let yourself get caught. Regroup at the front if you two find anything. Move out." And with military discipline and speed the Angels of Domination are off, determined to enter the city one way or another.

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