Shaping the Firmament: Tales of Creation

[WhiteKnight777]

The world hangs, suspended in the void like a blue-green marble on the jeweler's cloth of the universe. Behind the stars shine, bright and sharp as diamonds. Without the air to cut their clarity, they are like pinholes into the brightness beyond existence. The world is spread out below, clouds swirling in long, slow, lazy patterns. The works of man and all the other sentient races appear insiginificant from here - at least, the works of the modern races. All across the world one can see the old scars of the war - remembered now only in song and legend, and in the ancient ruins where the spirits still whisper on the wind. And, of course, by the only creatures in all the world who would likely be able to appreciate the view - the gods themselves.

One of their number was standing their now. Samazrael, the King of Hell himself stood on the airless surface of the moon, unbothered by the cold embrace of the void. He hummed softly to himself as he looked down upon the world, enjoying the view, then turned his attention back to the matter at hand.I

There was another figure there - a tall, sexless creature, its skin the color of midnight and its eyes large, oval orange-yellow balefires set into an oddly elongated skull. It stood deferentially, a position that it was not used to adopting but one that was nevertheless necessary, given his client's status. He bowed low before speaking, continuing a previous conversation.

"All occured as you predicted, my Lord. The Lords of the Eighty-Eighth and the Seventeenth have hatched a plot. They intend to assault the holdings of Yagath-Ur, Lady of the Sixty-Sixth and usurp her demense. My agents report that their forces mass even now at the gate to the Sixty-Sixth that has recently opened in the Seventeenth. Their plan is to use the artifact they recently acquired - the one we discussed at my last visit - to prevent outside awareness of the coup until it is complete."

The god turned, smiling, and gave a slow nod. "Superb work, as always, Yxotyl. When you return to your tower tonight, you will find a token of my appreciation."

The Yugoloth gave an oily grin, sliding backwards and disappearing with a twinkle of magical energy. The god stood alone for some time, staring down at the world. Infernal politics were all well and good, But they could be so awfully repetitive. Of course, there was more to their plan than the Yugoloth had indicated - Items that the fiend was not aware of - But his information had proved... useful. Samazrael grinned. With a flicker of his will, he sent the appropriate response to Wrath. The poor fellow had been so very on edge lately - just yesterday he had mutilated a couple of cornugons for interrupting one of his sparring sessions, and frankly he needed a little release. Perhaps slaughtering his way through a demonic horde or two would calm him down a bit. Samazrael laughed aloud at that particular notion. As if anything would calm that one.

Still, there were more interesting things to do... and once again his gaze drifted downwards, towards the world spread out below. In the endless prayers that his worshippers sent his way, he had picked out an interesting little tidbid - some adventurers had uncovered something... novel in one of the ancient pre-war ruins. Perhaps he would go down and just have a little look-see for himself. If what he had heard was true, arrangements might have to be made.

He grinned a little at that. It really was good to be Him.

[Fiery Justice]

I'm writing down a diary, of this. Of my search. Of my duty. I am Dossin, chief truth currier of the order of Gnostians. Its my job to hunt down a special quarry. And it all started in the whole in the ground that is the Gnostian Headquarters, or as close as it comes to.

It isn't really the place you would expect the leader of the Gnostians to be in. Sixteen feet underground, guarded by twenty iron doors, eight knights, spike traps, and other things that were extremely bothersome to me. I'm not a wizard, a cleric, or a sorcerer. I'm just a messenger boy, a spreader of truth. But we, the Gnostians, are of all sorts. Including mind bendingly evil, not to speak ill of colleagues. I'm not really the best at this, to be perfectly honest.

Lord Sinta is a decent guy, I guess, he's smart, brilliant. Excellence in a mortal mind unrivaled, he loves knowledge and wants to spread it. And thats something I can subscribe to, an end of propaganda, lies, deceptions. The truth can burn, and Sinta, Sinta knows that better then anyone. He worships a being known only as Gnost, that we all call the Silent God. To his back, and to his face. He just smiles like the wizened old man he is.

I'm getting to know this guy though, and man. He's brilliant. I've never heard the kind of stuff till I'm became the truth-carrier premier among the order. Its like he got a floor level blue print of the Universe. Humans are just puddy when he starts asking questions. His answers have ruined and saved kingdoms. And he does it all, with a little wink. A smile. And incredible sense that he knows everything.

I walked into the room distantly aware of the books somehow stuck to the ceil, hidden under the glass floors, covering every wall. The most ancient and valuable books collected by our order. Anywhere from the war journals of great generals to wizards notes on crafting spells. Everything the could be preserved or found from Pre-War, was recorded in this room. And Sinta just sat there aloof.

"Hello Dossin," he said

"Hello Sinta," I replied, stroking my hair, nervous.

"I need you to find something out for me, I need you to find Gnost." said Sinta, looking down at me from his seat, sometimes I hate being short. But most of the time it comes in handy.

"Lord Sinta, there have been several accounts of a creature of your teacher's build and curiosity, but none that voluntarily teaches. And none that we can hunt down fast enough."

"Yes, but I doubt my former teacher is trying to hide his pattern. Just trying and find him, please, I'm getting tired of not knowing why he chose me. What he wants. I want to know what he wants"

"I'm not going to join the church of Gnost, Lord Sinta, nor are many others. Are you sure it is wise for us to search out something that will cost our search so much?"

"Dossin, if it came to my attention that knowledge caused physical sickness in those who possessed it, it would be my duty, as a servant of truth, to spread that knowledge. Because we are servants of truth Dossin, no matter how much we dislike it. I doubt Gnost would call off my order of truth seekers anyway."

"Yes sir," I replied. -The Diary of Dossin, Seeker of Gnost.

[Axelgear]

Ponza, the Witch's Isle

There was change in the wind... Her nostrils flared at its scent. It was a familiar smell by now, after centuries upon centuries she could smell it easily. Constant appeasing prayers fed her as she walked through the forested part of her realm. She glanced over the island peak, out at the ship broken on her shores. It was long devoid of treasures, of life. She didn't care for the lifeless hulk, but she had admired the sight of it festering out on the edge of the water for as long as she cared to. Its presence pleased her no longer. With a simple gesture from her hand, the ship turned to dust and was carried in a gentle breeze across the water. Nothing marked its presence but for the indentation in the stand, and that would fade with time... Satisfaction at the removal of this speck showed itself on the goddess's face. With that, she turned and began to move with preternatural quickness across her isle, and yet she barely seemed to be walking...

There was more to do, of course, but she was certain to relish every moment. She chased her quarry, knowing their every move. There was no escape from Kali. Even as they fled for their pitiful lives, panting and sweating as they pushed themselves to the brink of exhaustion, trying to escape in a futile attempt to spare themselves what awaited. There had been around thirteen of their number, at least thirteen that made it to shore. There had been twenty originally, but she had allowed a large swipe of the Kraken's tentacle to take away a few and to provide itself with a snack. She stepped past a campfire they'd stayed at the first night, the tents they had made still there. She paused a moment to glance at them. Her hand burned with eerie blue fire for a moment, consuming any and all trace of their passing. This time, it was not a simple disintegration, though, and she admired the flickering, dancing, unnatural flames as they licked at the gear until it all evaporated. She kept moving. One of them was close. He'd stopped, getting food and drink for himself to keep himself going. Greedy, or smart... She would ask.

He was cowering in a bush when she found him. He had heard her coming and his britches were stained with the results of his own fear. He wept, wailing with horror as the goddess reached slowly down and wrapped her claws around his throat. Slowly, she lifted him up until his feet were dangling off the ground. He gripped her hand, but she barely felt it. There was surprise in his features as she let him down, watching him stagger away, pressing his back into a tree, unable to turn and flee as the piercing ice-cold eyes locked on his. The bemused grin was like that of a child looking down into a fish-pond as they prepared to drop a rock in or at ants through a magnifying lens, waiting for them to burst into flames. It was that look of a greater being down onto a lesser one, caring nothing for their existence. He didn't know what she wanted, what she was planning; he was just terrified that it involved the ending of his life, or worse...

"W-What do you want with me?" These were the only words that could escape his lips as the tall, slender creature stood over him, offering him no escape. She seemed to mull over those words, as if she hadn't quite decided yet. She grasped his jaw and pushed his head against the tree, hard but not enough to do any more than leave him wincing. She turned it from one side of his face to the other, examining him. A red-headed renegade from where he came from, the previously brave pirate was now a quivering, tear-stained wreck before a far more powerful beast than he. "Mmmm... Well, I could hollow out your skull and make it into a bowl... It's a good shape. Much better than the last one I got my hands on." She said casually, reaching into a bag that hung under her arm and drew out a skull, stripped of flesh and its contents. She examined it, holding it near his head, him still able to see claw marks near one of the eye sockets, his body bracing him in fear. Upon making the comparison, she dropped the skull to the ground and crushed it loudly beneath her foot. "Yes, yours is much more nicely shaped... Unless you can offer me more entertainment than ripping your head from your shoulders and drinking soup from it, and I warn you, I would find that very entertaining." She said with a giggle. It was horrifying how totally lacking maliciousness it was. There was no hatred, no anger, no spite. She was doing this purely for the fun of it; for nothing more than the twisted joy she gained from his suffering. Still, he'd slit men's throats for less than his own life... He nodded, trying to think of what he could offer her. Then, he offered the one thing that came to mind. "I... I can make you music." He said. She quirked a brow at that, and her face instantly lost the devious smile, gaining a coy poker face that hid her emotions. She waited for him to continue, and continue he did. "I can get you their skulls. All of them! I can make music on them, f-for you! I will make music dedicated to you!" He offered, pleading for his life. She considered it slowly... Well... If she killed him, she'd probably just end up killing the others too, and that would mean more of the same... Too much of a good thing could certainly make it less special.

"Very well," She began, "You may serve me in this fashion. If you prove entertaining enough, I may let you live to compose again." She said graciously, him thanking her profusely before drawing his blade, turning, and running. She, of course, knew he would keep his word. This pleased her. Of course, if he failed to entertain her later, well... She could always enjoy her soup then.

The Northlands (Area 48 or so)

In the blink of an eye, she was there. The cold agreed with her... Frigid air rushed by her, blowing around the looser parts of her long, purple robe. She was born to these climes, taking a moment to scoop up some snow in her palm and crush it in her hand, letting the condensed slush fall back to the ground. She knew her presence would be felt here soon. She was certain Kerska would notice her within a short time, and Samrazael would notice her unholy presence if he was looking. Any other gods out there who cared would also sense her. Kali was bored, and the Great Game was about to begin once more, on a scale unprecedented.

.... Well, this was taking a while. In the meantime, Kali found herself rearranging piles of snow with divine powers, sculpting various images, amongst which was Kerska, herself, Samrazael, and the current Eidolon all sitting around a table playing card games. She admired the creation for a moment before then noticing Kerska's statue had a straight flush. That was quickly fixed...

[Kain_Tempest]

Scarzam raised his head, the icey frost cracking and crumbling from around his neck as he looked up at the frozen chamber. Slowly his left eye opened, fiery gold and a long breath of vapour passed through his lipless iron teeth.
"The lazy summer sun has given to autumn winds, my lord." An enchanting, aurm tongued voice whispered, reverberated against the black marble the black marble pillars of Scarzam's throne room. "I believe it is high time to see to your harvest."
Scarzam cracked open his other eye, azure blue and slowly looked around at his frozen domain, eyes like the sun and moon gleaming out of the darkness from his mask's eye sockets.
Harsh white light came down light columns from the openins in the ceiling, illuminating the clumped tufts of white snow that floated gently down to the polished marble floor. The wind howled mercilessly, coming through the openings and the frosty blue windows. The weather outside was bitter, but it seemed as though his audience hall was no better.

"High time indeed." A voice sound light the slight of fine steel against steel combined with the crash of an avalanche, rumbled from deep within the god's chest and into smoking vapour flecked with blue embers. He turned his palms up to the ceiling and breathed, easing the obsidian claws of dragons and the white marble arms of beautiful mades, both of which langorously stroked his black armour before resting in their appropriate places, freeing him from their lengthy embrace upon the adamntine throne.

Scarzam lingered, leaning back against the rich silks which crackled from the cold and looked up at the statue looming overhead. Whereas many temples placed their glory unto him with a vision of the skull-faced warlord reached by the majestic crowns of dragons, maidens, monsters, warriors, weapons, or even flowers and grasses, here instead, was his tribute to something greater. His visage was unchanging but there was a certain glow as he looked up at the feminine image rendered in mithral. Delicate, regal features on a body of an absent goddess with proud majestic wings. Her faces was fixed forward toward the horizon and always better things, a small smile was expertly rendered, the artisan taking incredible care. What blessed craftsmanship that had even reduced the hard hearted god of war to wails of joy and sadness.

"You're reminiscing, my lord." The golden tongued voice warned. Scarzam's head snapped back down and he gently rested his hand on his right shoulder guard, gently patting the glimmering pauldron.
His armour rattled and his fur cloak rustled as Scarzam Arichande rose from his black throne, standing on the dais beneath the glory of that mithral angel.

The piles of snow parted, sweeping themselves to the edges of the chamber as Scarzam passed, walking along the wide open chamber with marble bleachers on either side, his court empty at the moment. Beyond it lay a place of concentration, but not meditation. No, it was his window to a world beyond his raging paradise of bitter ice and stone. Beyond this palace that, beyond his sanctum lay a Shangri-La and Gehenna of conflict, of chaos, law, good, and evil, but always the energies of conflict. An army of the devoted training in mock battles between immortals. Later they would laugh, drink, and carouse, but now it was going to be shouts and blood, all of which muffled by the thick walls of Avalay Viz Wavir. He was pleased how the Nosterian's fashioned the Forbidden Palace of the holy city after his lovely abode.

The Mirror lay before him, a great basin of water seemingly full of tranquil, cold water, expansive as a lake when looking at it, but no more than fifty paces to lap around, it was immensely deep. Within those depths, Scarzam saw reflections of a world not like his own, although there were some similarities, it was still different and now it was a place of simmering anger and grudges, but little blood that he found he liked the taste of. The people were growing fat, the armouries dusty, the soldiers bored, the lives of many drab and the gifts of his other, of Scarzam Arichande, were being taken for granted. No longer would he have that continue.

"I believe it is time for a new era, don't you agree, Jun?" The golden pauldron didn't respond but he felt a glow of a smile coming from it.

Raising his clawed hands, Scarzam closed his eyes and slowly felt the current, the rising energies from Creation as he sought out the prayers of his followers and of those who sought battle. The warriors and the knights, the kings and the peasants. All he needed were the right drops in the right places, the snow to fall on the right peak, the beat of a butterfy's wing.

Ishvale was growing strong and flourishing, perhaps they would be the harbingers of the new age. But now to find one champion to begin with...

[Fiery Justice]

The beast that Databank was observing had never been observed by a mortal, as it existed in places few of them could reach and none could truly explore. It was a quadruped, shaped in a way similar to that of a horse or dog, and its height was about 38 inches at its withers. Its weight, were it on the material plane, would be almost nothing, but thats more an issue of composition. Its feet are toad-like, implying an amphibious nature. Its skin is similar in tone and texture to a frog and feels slippery to the touch, ranging from light greens to light blues. It has a snout attached to its mouth in the way that a dog does, its own teeth resembling a shark's, extending from its face (which is attached to its neck in the same way a dog's face is) where two, pearl-like eyes sit in vigil.

The creature is a kind of spiritual vampire, feeding on souls and beings to fill itself with life. It travels the area where it dwells, capturing souls departing for realms and taking bits of the soul and synthesizing them with its own nature, making itself more powerful. They have the power to see souls, invisible creatures, and many other things, and their eyes make extremely good divining orbs. All told, they are an extremely dangerous species that Databank has labeled the Varsi.

One Varsi that Databank was observing sense him, not really embarrassing as he wasn't trying to hide that well, ran at him and bit him. Now, Databank could easily have dodged the attack, but he didn't really bother to do so. The bite itself took the rough equivalent of a single drop of blood in ichor and cost Databank nothing.

And the creature mutated instantly. Its eyes swirled with golden mist, its skin ruffled and became covered in words in tongues long dead, sealed with symbols. Its mind sharpened to a lightning pace, its magical prowess, naturally substantial, became intensified. Its feeding habits too changed, no long hungry for souls it could devour the minds of men instead, gaining knowledge and wisdom. It took on a new nature and so Databank gave it a new name, Avanon. It shared its maker's hunger for knowledge, and his ichor would sustain it forever. The Hunter of Minds would become the bogey man of more then a few cultures and its power and knowledge would become legendary even among the gods.

[The_Snark]

There are tales of those who, struck by great love or tragedy, have sought out the Queen of Hearts in the flesh, to beg her assistance or confront her for her abandonment. The very learned sometimes scoff at these tales, for some have divined the truth: Jamene's dwelling place, in a spiritual sense that is nonetheless very real, is in the hearts and minds of everything that feels. It is not, they know, some simple demiplane or Palace of a Thousand Delights (as it has been described in many popular tales and penny dreadfuls). She spreads herself throughout the longings of the world, and rests in their dreams.

And although these men are very learned and quite correct, they are wrong in one particular. The tales of men and women who have sought and found the goddess are sometimes quite true; for while her dream-realm is not reachable as others are, Jamene does love a good tale, especially if romance is involved, and after they endure great hardship she brings them to her.

Dream is ever-changing, made up of the collective desires (and fears) of every mortal creature. Despite the name, it is not only those who sleep that influence it, although the strong subconscious emotion that dreams often bring mean that the sleeping have the greatest effect, shaping great areas of it to match their dreams. Those who dream are present in the realm, in a distant way, much like ethereal wanderers brush up against the Material Plane. Other things are native, born of long-repressed desires and the secret thoughts that the dreamers do not think while waking; these are in cases so strange that they can barely be called creatures.

And in one "area" (not that distance has meaning here) lies a place that is, more or less, the storied Palace of a Thousand Delights, brought into being by the expectation of its existence; on the rare occasion when Jamene brings visitors into this place, here is where she meets them. One such is coming now—not a bereaved lover, as was the most common in the tales, but a bereaved mother.

The Palace must meet expectations, of course: halls filled with every food imaginable served on gold platters and in jeweled chalices, doorways that draw the eye and the heart (one opens onto a perfect afternoon, the sunlight hanging like a honey glaze over an idyllic meadow and pond; another shows a lagoon in a tropical island, the blue-green water failing to quite conceal beautiful coral reefs; a third drops onto a vast mountain vista, with the falling sun painting the clouds in orange and purple), thinly dressed lovers and smiling servants (the line between the two often blurs) entwined in the halls. But the mother has not come for love or luxury, and as the goddess considers that, the path the mother will enter through changes, showing glimpses of those other things but not intruding on her grief and hope. It is a hallway of grey stone and white marble, and the ceiling high above made of a thick glass that shines white sunlight through. A peaceful path—the noise from the revels filters through only when the onlooker glances to one side.

The mother approaches, marching steadily through the halls with only passing glances at the wonders elsewhere. Her heart is fixed on its desire already. The walk is long, but she has come further already; this woman has journeyed to Mount Eid, to Ishvale, and lastly to heathen Maruk, and then walked more in search of the goddess when mortal magics failed her. The light in the hallway dims as she struggles onwards, dropping her into darkness.

And as the stars at last peep out overhead, the hallway is no longer; she is in a dark graveyard near a village on the other. Laughter comes from the homes, and golden light spills from their windows. Upon the other side of the graveyard is a darkened forest.

In between that forest and her stands a figure. Grey hair, a lined face: the goddess looks a young grandmother here, kindly and strong despite her advancing years. She knows why the mother is here, of course, but waits for her to see it.

The mother clears her throat, resting on her walking-staff. "Are you the one I'm looking for? Are you Jamene the goddess?" There is weariness in her voice, but no surprise at the changes, or when the goddess nods. Travel through Dream had a way of acclimatizing one to strangeness. "Please," she says. "I need your help. My son is dead."

"He caught sick—something that withered his body like a man of fivescore winters. The herbwomen could do nothing, and when he died—I lived alone with him, my lady; my husband is dead—I couldn't... I didn't want..." She clears her throat roughly. "I went looking; they say priests can raise the dead. But they don't—it's hard, and they can't for just anyone; when I finally found someone willing to try, they tried and said they couldn't. Nobody else I found could."

Silence. Desperation growing, the mother continues. "I looked for three years, even though they said it was only in stories—true ones, maybe, but old. They said you could help if I found you. They said! Please, goddess—my son! He's—was—only ten..." She is crying silently now. "I am alone now. My husband's gone, and he was a good enough man but I'll live without him; my family is... I can't bear not seeing him! Even if they tell me he's happy, wherever... Please!" The tears are not so silent anymore; she sobs as she pleads, growing more distraught, and now she shows traces of anger. "Say something! Don't just—stand there! They said you—"

In an instant, Jamene crosses the space between them, cupping her hands around the mother's head and kissing her on the forehead. "Shhhhh, my child," she whispers comfortingly, and the mother buries herself in the embrace as if she really were a child. "Shhhh. It will be right. I know all you've done for him. Your love is very great."

"Then you'll..."

"Here." She slips something into the mother's hand, a seed about the size of a peach pit—but as smooth as if it were glazed and polished, and as red as any natural wood can be. "Take this. Plant it on his grave. Water it, and it will flourish. You must tend to it every night for seven weeks, and stay there waking or sleeping until the sun rises. Do this thing for me, and your son will return to you." She draws the other woman back out of the embrace, smiling warmly, and kisses her once more on the forehead. The mother looks down at the seed, and clasps it as if it were her salvation.

"I will do it, goddess. My thanks—my life!—is yours. If there is anything you would ask of me in return..."

"You have given it already, my child," Jamene says, releasing her. "Go." She nods towards the light from the village, which—the woman realizes—is her own. "There is your way back. Your home. Journey's end."

The mother walks back towards her home with the life of her son clutched in one hand, and behind her, the grandmotherly goddess fades away, into her once-more nebulous residence.

Always a pleasure to fulfill such a heartfelt desire as that. Love, hate and fear were always strongest among emotions. And now, she has the chance to examine why no mortal magic had brought the boy back, what sickness could do this...

[WhiteKnight777]

Samazrael looked down at the world, and his laughter was colder than the void itself. With the merest effort of will, he detached himself from the pull of the moon, motes of lunar dust dancing about him as he gathered speed. Down he plunged, falling through the void and then through the air, scorching it with his descent. Fire gathered about him, and he glowed like a falling star. Wings of fire leapt from his back, crimson at the core, bleeding out to orange-yellow at the tips like the plumage of a phoenix. Those who looked up at the night sky as he fell took it as an omen, whether for good or for ill.

At last, he came to rest, his velocity slowing to naught just before impact so that the touch of his bare feet upon the sand did naught else but send up the tiniest puff of sand. Still, as he walked forward into the shadow of an ancient palace, the sand beneath him glowed white-hot and turned to black glass in his passage, only to be covered by the wind-blown sand.

A cruel smile crossed his inhumanly handsome face as he entered the sandswept halls. He remembered the light and music that had filled them before the fall - and he remembered, too, the debauchery sin that had filled their later years. Some of his finest work, really. But he wasn't here to reflect on old memories...

A sort walk brought him to the Heart-Chamber. Even after all these years, the place thrummed with power... He gave a malicious little chuckle. With a snap of his fingers, a jolt of energy left into the massive red crystal, set in its golden cradle, that sat in the center of the room. The central crystal began to hum, and soon too did all the others, glowing brighter and brighter as they gathered strength. Samazrael watched as a sudden flare of light surged through the column in the center of the room, setting the spire atop the city to glowing like a lighthouse in a storm, staining the clouds with a grim red radiance.

Stepping back outside, he nodded at his handiwork. All it would take now were a few instructions to the right cultists and every kingdom within a hundred leagues would be squabbling over their new find. So much conflict, so much intrigue, so much hatred...

So much fun