This is an odd entry, even by my standards.
It is a part of a much larger work, written by myself and one Richard Hughes (an excellent fellow, and I'm not just saying that because doing so was a condition of reproducing his work here). The history of Philocrates - to say nothing of the world he occupies, the world of Exalted (RPG, copyright White Wolf Publishing) - is long and complex, both before and after what you're about to read. As such, I don't know whether my readers (all five of you!) will be interested in this slice of myth. But, since I don't know that you won't, and thought it was some of my best work, I thought I'd clean up this section (the first 3 pages of 21) and post it - if it seems to go well, I may put up the other sections in later updates.
Sing, Muses, of green-eyed Philocrates! Champion of the city of Great Forks, he was a chosen of the Lord of Heaven, the unmatched and unconquered Sol Invictus. Even among the Solar Exalted, Philocrates was known as a master of many disciplines: his archery was so peerless that he could fire arrows which never strayed from a bow forged of his own raging spirit, his skin was hard as iron from having baked beneath the sun's life-strengthening rays, he could go days without rest in the pursuit of Sol's glory, he could emit the Chaos-Warding Pattern, which bound madness of Hell itself to follow the holy laws of Creation, and his legend was known all across the world and beyond as a man who could broker holy oaths, that it was blasphemy to strike against unless he attacked first.
Most of all, Fleet Philocrates was known as the fastest creature in all Creation, able to race the wind, balance on a falling leaf, or the surface of a cloud, and partake travels of such an epic scope that Mercury herself, the Maiden of Journeys and sister to Sol Invictus, had honored his skill by swearing to make a road on which his running would be enhanced sevenfold for any one journey of his choice.
But though his legend was great and spread to all corners of Creation, Philocrates yearned to carry it further, into the Wylds which lie beyond creation, where beings both Nameless and Shapeless roil without having ever known the touch of order, and the half-shaped Raksha steal dreams and eat the passions of those so foolish as to reach them. Into this chaos where all laws broke down in madness and vision, Philocrates sought to carry the legends of himself, Great Forks, and Sol Invictus by running outside of the world, and making a circle all the way around Creation – many tens of thousands of miles – in a single week.
In preparation for this quest, he went to Orduin Thrice-Radiant, his ally, and a hero of legend in his own right (though this is not the time to speak fully of his accomplishments), and received a suit of armor both light and strong. He went to the three gods of Great Forks: Dayshield, Talespinner, and Dreamweaver. Each gave him their blessing, and wished for his return. Finally, he went before Mercury, and begged a grand favor indeed: that she would lay him a road all across the Wyld beyond Creation, that could lead him fully around the world. Impressed by his resolve, she laid the road, but cautioned him of one condition: should he ever cease running forward, even for a single second, the road would vanish, and he would have to return to Creation by slower and less safe means.
Taking all these gifts, Philocrates set out to carve a legend into formlessness by the patterns of his footsteps.
On the first day, Philocrates saw Chaos.
He had left the Manse Orduin maintained deep in the East, where one may stand on the branch of a tree and see neither ground nor sky. For several hours he had run East even from that place, towards the edges of Creation. The air filled with a strange mist, which might have killed a mortal, and made even so mighty a champion as Philocrates gasp. The trees bent and warped, and eventually seemed to have no true shapes at all. Thoughts and dreams took form in the air, until one no longer needed to guess what was reality and what a dream: there was no reality at all, save in Philocrates' presence. Within the glow of his Solar soul, ever-shifting branches became solid enough to stand on, impossible creatures faded from existence, and Creation asserted itself for the few moments it took that legendary sprinter to move on, carrying his Chaos-Warding presence ever deeper into the Wyld, until he could see true Chaos before him.
It looked unlike the Wyld: it had no semblance of form of meaning, no shapes or colors which could be described. Only infinite, unthinkable madness. Mercury's road, he knew, would turn just at the edge of that impossibility, forming a circle one hundred thousand miles around, with Chaos just to his right all the way around.
As Philocrates reached the point where all resemblance to reality gave way, he saw a figure approaching. It did not look like the roaring hills, or the strange bearded man who came towards him earlier, but flickered out when confronted with the force of his reality. Rather, it was a tall, strong, and oddly familiar figure, running in the same direction as he, though slowly moving sideways, towards Creation from Chaos. It was faster as well – when it first appeared it was some distance behind him, but it impossibly closed the gap over the next hour.
Upon drawing near, it called out, "Hail, Emerald-Eyed Hero. You have shown all of Creation your bravery, coming this far. Now turn back, and spare us all some anguish."
"I cannot turn back from this road," said Philocrates, leaping from leaf to leaf, the leaves no more coherent than the word, occasionally striding across bare words, 'leaf', 'spore', 'branch', written in blood across the bark-colored sky. "Mercury has sanctified it for me!"
"Mercury," called the figure, running lightly up a waterfall of coins, "is not here. She has no authority on the path you take. Only yourself and Chaos may decide the outcome. Chaos has chosen destruction for all you hold dear. Do you assent to this judgment?"
For a moment, Philocrates prepared to respond, 'Obviously I don't,' but thought perhaps these things of Chaos do not understand the idea of loathing destruction of that which you cherish. "I do not assent to this judgment," he said, narrowing his eyes on this figure, seeking to take the measure of the eyes, the face, the shoulders - to force reality upon this thing that dwells in chaos, to destroy it with his judgment and gaze. It ran on the opposite side of many falling crocodile's tears, but he could see that it wore armor, with an elaborate crest. Virtually none of the thing's features showed, though two bright flames glowed where eyes should have been. Its footsteps left ice in their wake, its breath appeared as spores, the fingers protruding from its gauntlets were as grey as stone, and a slight sheen of deep blue sweat had appeared on them.
It continued to approach as it said, "If you would overturn the judgment, then leave, for this road is nothing but ruin to you and yours. Each day, a trial shall come. To fail is to die, to succeed is worse."
"I fear nothing that you can bring to bear against me," declared Philocrates bluntly. "The horrors of chaos are diaphanous illusions, easily spurned; even your Raksha cousins are mostly vapor. Your illusions vanish under the weight of my Chaos-Warding Pattern!"
"A Solar is stronger than a Raksha," agreed the figure, running up a sequence of clouds to leap gloriously through the air, "and might be stronger than Chaos itself. But how well do you know yourself? Each challenge you pass will become a part of your story, and legend. For each challenge you pass, a part of it will stay with you, attached to your Name across all the Wyld. And, before you emerge, a plague will fall upon Great Forks, far from your Patten, and smash them with Wood, Air, Water, Fire, Earth, and Chaos, if you live so long, before great Philocrates can defend them."
“Chaos lies," replied Philocrates, striding across integral trees through miasmic skies. There is a lull in the conversation while he holds his breath for a solid minute, sprinting at full speed. "If you would scourge Great Forks, you will find it harder than you imagine. Our walls are not so easily wished away - our gods mightier than your vaporous wrath."
The figure landed beside Philocrates, just outside his Pattern, making the ground nearby less mutable as it did. It proved to be of a height with the young hero, and when it turned its head to regard him, the flames burning in its helmet were green. "I know the strength of Great Forks," it said, in a voice as tired as it was defiant. "But you do not know the power of Chaos. And if we are wise, we never will."
"For us to know you would limit you," said Philocrates. "It's natural you fear our gaze - our understanding. But so be it. Bring your horrors upon me, then! We'll see who is victorious!" As he spoke, he remained careful not to twitch to the side, and brush the horror with his Pattern, which would scourge it and violate the peace-pact.
The figure, however, entered the Pattern willfully, and remained unharmed. Running directly alongside Philocrates, it continued speaking. "They are not my horrors and we both know you will win, if you are ready to risk everything for the run. I am telling you that it is not worth the sacrifice. There is victory over any obstacle, but not over Chaos."
Philocrates would have paused, if such an act would not be instantly fatal – this close, he could recognize the figure's voice as his own. "You move like darkness chasing the receding light and stand unharmed under the weight of Creation... What are you?" His gaze remained forward - to blink could send him in to a tree-branch, and even his iron skin could only protect him against so many.
"I am one who followed a path sanctified by Mercury," came the voice again, "without fear, repelled tides chaos, bested all challengers, and came to understand the price."
Philocrates narrows his eyes and stares in to the path ahead of him. "You're a lie born of chaos. We'll see what comes of it."
"Maybe I am," said the other Philocrates, "Though I feel myself to be real, and I stand within the bounds of Creation. Once I ran where you run, and heard the warnings you hear, and I did not believe, either - I do not know why I thought I could sway you, though a hero must try." The specter took a deep breath and held it as the two sprinted through a swarm of non-existent bees, which faded to a gentle mist on contact with the Chaos-Repelling Pattern. "Remember what I have told you - there will be six trials: Wood, Air, Water, Fire, Earth, and Chaos. Failure is death, and only death or surrender will prevent retribution.
"Remember this."
So saying, the strange doppleganger veered away from Philocrates, plunging into Chaos. The earth shook, a horde of mechanical birds cried that the worms can swim through ice, and this is unjust. Then, there was silence.
"I'm not so easily swayed by such things," muttered Philocrates, setting himself forward and thinking only of the road ahead, his iron will fighting to avoid despair at the impossibly compelling mockery all men know is within The Wyld's power. "Chaos will rue their attempts to ward me."
Chaos made no answer, and the unreality lay still for a time.
28 February 2010
Twilight Of The Writers
He had built the tower of slate and pig iron. He had barred the doors, disdaining locks. He spent each day blindfolded, ears plugged, thinking of only a few creature comforts and his own, quiet breaths. He did everything he could think of, and still they came.
Jarvain of Mistroud groaned as he heard their wings battering against his defenses. The sellswords he had hired to defend this sanctum all left long ago - only a few foolish men (and one young girl, pretending to be a man) remained at their posts, writing beautifully tragic poems on the slate and iron walls, which were later filed off by Jarvain's command. They saw all around them awe-inspiring symbols that their cause was doomed, but were still loyal enough to the legendary playwright they would not abandon him to the nine monsters who howled through the night and sung through the day, cold, immortal, and merciless.
Even with his hands over his plugged ears, Jarvain could hear the singing. His body spasmed with the desire to rush down to the cellar, unearth his buried pens and paper, and-
He fought the urge down, and began eating his morning gruel.
It hadn't always been like this, of course, When he was young, his life had been quite orderly, with ideas that flowed smoothly around him. There was time then, for food and drink and travel and love. More and more, however, the food made him think of how to cook better, the drink moved him to song, he painted masterpieces of his travels, and his love was lost beneath piles of poetry. He had begun to wonder if there was a man left beneath all the-
A touch against his hand startled him, and Jarvain stopped abruptly, realizing he had been narrating his life out loud. He glared at the inside of his blindfold, in the direction he imagined his enemies lay. "Give no report," he whispered to whomever it was who had come to him (probably the girl-as-a-man, she usually drew the short straw for this sort of thing). "The last thing I want to do now is think of tactics."
He waited until he was sure the brief visitor had left, then lay down on his bed and tried not to find inspiration in his hopelessness. Outside, far above him, the Muses continued their assault.
Jarvain of Mistroud groaned as he heard their wings battering against his defenses. The sellswords he had hired to defend this sanctum all left long ago - only a few foolish men (and one young girl, pretending to be a man) remained at their posts, writing beautifully tragic poems on the slate and iron walls, which were later filed off by Jarvain's command. They saw all around them awe-inspiring symbols that their cause was doomed, but were still loyal enough to the legendary playwright they would not abandon him to the nine monsters who howled through the night and sung through the day, cold, immortal, and merciless.
Even with his hands over his plugged ears, Jarvain could hear the singing. His body spasmed with the desire to rush down to the cellar, unearth his buried pens and paper, and-
He fought the urge down, and began eating his morning gruel.
It hadn't always been like this, of course, When he was young, his life had been quite orderly, with ideas that flowed smoothly around him. There was time then, for food and drink and travel and love. More and more, however, the food made him think of how to cook better, the drink moved him to song, he painted masterpieces of his travels, and his love was lost beneath piles of poetry. He had begun to wonder if there was a man left beneath all the-
A touch against his hand startled him, and Jarvain stopped abruptly, realizing he had been narrating his life out loud. He glared at the inside of his blindfold, in the direction he imagined his enemies lay. "Give no report," he whispered to whomever it was who had come to him (probably the girl-as-a-man, she usually drew the short straw for this sort of thing). "The last thing I want to do now is think of tactics."
He waited until he was sure the brief visitor had left, then lay down on his bed and tried not to find inspiration in his hopelessness. Outside, far above him, the Muses continued their assault.
15 February 2010
The Worldly Desires Are Not Enough
The bomb's clock counted down. That was its nature after all, I mused, but the thought brought me little comfort - I could not take comfort in it working towards a dharma that would end my material existence. My masters at Shangri-La Intelligence would be ashamed of me, no doubt, had they not all attained Nirvana long ago.
I pulled my mind deeper into my meditations. I was chained to a massive Desire Bomb, which was counting down quickly until it detonated, giving the millions of people in the city above us an acute, all-consuming desire for survival in the fraction of a second before it sent them back to the kharmic wheel, where they would doubtless face poor reincarnations, having died in a moment of great and selfish desire. I could not let it succeed.
Deep in my mind, the voice of the Grandmaster spoke, "still your worries, Double Oh Lama. Extinguish your desire - it is not for you to save lives, but to flow harmoniously with the universe. Clearly, the universal will is now this explosion. Let go, my student."
I took a long, quiet breath. I prepared myself to release my selfish desires for survival and the success of my mission. And then, through my enlightened techniques of detachment, I let go of my master's spirit within me. "Ommmm... it is you and me, Bomb. Let us see who rules the kharmic wheel," I chanted in the ancient tradition of my order.
The bomb's clock counted down. That was its nature, I knew. A tendency rooted in the folly of many flawed existences, sinful souls who had failed deeply, and lived out their current lives as enriched Uranium. I had tried praying for them when I came in, but the bomb was outfitted with counterclockwise-spinning prayer wheels to the Yama Kings, and the souls inside could not be reached. I cast about for more options.
My enemies had done their work well. There were no visible brick walls I could gaze at to attain enlightenment, just an endless expanse of tools, money, food, big cars, and other traps of desire which could not possibly grant me the perspective I needed to stop the bomb. The answer did not lie in my surroundings, and I had stilled the voice that came from within. Truly, it was a difficult position.
Then, somewhere, a twig snapped, and I saw the solution. "The men who set you," I told the bomb, "are but men - merely misguided, not my enemies. They only think they desire the extinguishing of the kharmic wheel. Their inner spirits know the peace of Atman, and will never release it. Therefore, if they cannot release peace, they must have released me." So speaking, I walked across the room and opened the door.
On the other side, a man in a fancy suit with glasses and a dull blue tie looked up at me. "Were you in there the whole time, Double Oh Lama?" he asked me. "Did you wind up playing with the toy bomb again.
"The master rolled a ball down the hill, and when a disciple brought it back to him, said simply 'no' and threw the ball away," I answered. I could not tell him the details of my mission - such is the life of an Intelligence Monk Of Mystery!
I pulled my mind deeper into my meditations. I was chained to a massive Desire Bomb, which was counting down quickly until it detonated, giving the millions of people in the city above us an acute, all-consuming desire for survival in the fraction of a second before it sent them back to the kharmic wheel, where they would doubtless face poor reincarnations, having died in a moment of great and selfish desire. I could not let it succeed.
Deep in my mind, the voice of the Grandmaster spoke, "still your worries, Double Oh Lama. Extinguish your desire - it is not for you to save lives, but to flow harmoniously with the universe. Clearly, the universal will is now this explosion. Let go, my student."
I took a long, quiet breath. I prepared myself to release my selfish desires for survival and the success of my mission. And then, through my enlightened techniques of detachment, I let go of my master's spirit within me. "Ommmm... it is you and me, Bomb. Let us see who rules the kharmic wheel," I chanted in the ancient tradition of my order.
The bomb's clock counted down. That was its nature, I knew. A tendency rooted in the folly of many flawed existences, sinful souls who had failed deeply, and lived out their current lives as enriched Uranium. I had tried praying for them when I came in, but the bomb was outfitted with counterclockwise-spinning prayer wheels to the Yama Kings, and the souls inside could not be reached. I cast about for more options.
My enemies had done their work well. There were no visible brick walls I could gaze at to attain enlightenment, just an endless expanse of tools, money, food, big cars, and other traps of desire which could not possibly grant me the perspective I needed to stop the bomb. The answer did not lie in my surroundings, and I had stilled the voice that came from within. Truly, it was a difficult position.
Then, somewhere, a twig snapped, and I saw the solution. "The men who set you," I told the bomb, "are but men - merely misguided, not my enemies. They only think they desire the extinguishing of the kharmic wheel. Their inner spirits know the peace of Atman, and will never release it. Therefore, if they cannot release peace, they must have released me." So speaking, I walked across the room and opened the door.
On the other side, a man in a fancy suit with glasses and a dull blue tie looked up at me. "Were you in there the whole time, Double Oh Lama?" he asked me. "Did you wind up playing with the toy bomb again.
"The master rolled a ball down the hill, and when a disciple brought it back to him, said simply 'no' and threw the ball away," I answered. I could not tell him the details of my mission - such is the life of an Intelligence Monk Of Mystery!
09 February 2010
Heroes And Monsters
As the last member of the honor guard crumpled at his feet, Lord Idris Melys silently resolved to never give this much trouble to a visiting head of state in his own lands.
It wasn't that he had expected a welcoming reception from Queen (Nehali, in the local language) Sorianna Al-Mourn – even after all they had shared not so long ago, she was caught up in fear and monsters, and barely knew herself from the madness that surrounded her. But, really, four layers of wards, two companies of troops, and now the elite Royal Guard was starting to seem excessive.
Some of those wards had been designed with him, personally, in mind. He tried not to think about that.
Idris sighed, and with an act of will, sent a ripple of force through his weapon, currently in the form of a flail. Fleck of Royal Guardsmens' blood splashed lightly against the walls. He checked his clothing next: his boots and loose silk pants remained presentable, the ornate buckle on his sash was only slightly dented where a spout of enchanted blood had hit it like a boar spear, and the ruffles in his shirt hid the tears the best pair of guardsmen had dealt it before he knocked them unconscious. He straighted his azure cloak, to fall billowing along his sides, leaving his arms mobile for fighting and his symbols of office visible, as it should. The four silver rings and opal-studded torque he wore were, along with his silver-threaded gloves, as flawless as always. Finally, he brushed back a wave of cream-colored hair from his brilliantly green eyes.
Good enough. Time to make an entrance.
The doors to the throne room were, of course, warded against magic, and hardened against force. As he approached them, he slipped lifted one hand, and called to it the ring of keys he remembered seeing on a Guardsman's belt. None of the keys matched the lock, of course – not even the Nehalein were proud enough to think their throne room safe with its key outside. But they had been enchanted as Castle keys, so when he remolded almost all of them into the shape of a single, giant skeleton key, the door's wards made no protest to it opening them. As the door opened, Idris smiled.
The sweeping pillars that stood around three sides of the Nehali's Court stood abandoned, as did the majestic balconies they supported. The only sound was the constant fountain of water, running through a complex nine-ringed shape on the floor. What the room lacked in number of occupants, however, the ones it had made up for with the intensity of those it had.
To the left hand of the throne stood Royal Chancilor Emekam, his dark robes and steady eyes as unwavering as ever. To the right hand of the throne stood a monster, whom Idris tried not to look at. It wasn't difficult – on the throne sat a vision of beauty with crimson hair, the intricately styled dress or Nehalein nobility, and a glare that posed more threat than any of the castle's wards. Sorianna. He hadn't seen her in far too long – his heart quickened. Of course, he had never seen her this angry. His blood chilled.
Only slightly daunted, he stepped forward. “Lord Idris Melys,” he said, using the booming tones mostly reserved for calling changes of orders during battle, “Lord of Metal, Emperor of Iachus, Protector of-”
“- somewhere else,” Sorianna snarled. “I recommend you go back there. Now.”
“I would,” replied Idris, keeping his composure, “but for the small matter of an army marching on your world, which I fear will soon overrun you unless you hear me out.”
Emekam's face betrayed no expressions during negotiation, but his tone was disappointed. “Threats and blackmail, Lord Idris? Had I known you stooped this low, I would not have advised Her Majesty to grant you audience.”
Idris blinked. “That's not-”
Sorianna cut him off again. “Blackmail is nothing new. But I did not grant you an audience. On top everything – everything! - else you've done, you attacked my people? Here, on sacred ground?”
Idris held up the flail in his left hand. “Only a little. I was a perfect gentleman – I chose a weapon which could deal stunning blows, disarm people easily, and has never been formally taught on this world.” He smiled wryly. “I barely even drew blood.”
Emekam nodded. “Our thanks for that.” His voice had sounded genuinely warm for a moment, but grew flat as he continued. “But to come in here and threaten us with war if we do not act as you wish – that remains inexcusable. You have proven quite the conqueror, Lord Idris, but I never would have suspected you to be a simple thug.”
“This is not about my army. You must listen – the Illuthiani are preparing for war.”
“Your alliance with our oldest enemies is known to us, Lord,” said Emekam evenly, his voice cold as ice.
“What?” Idris gasped in genuine surprise – he had made no such alliance, and Emekam's intelligence was generally quite reliable. “Who told you that?”
“It makes no difference,” Emekam replied, sadly. “This discussion is over.”
“No,” said Idris, stepping closer to the throne. “I cannot allow-”
Sorianna cut in again “It is not for you to allow-”
But Idris voice was crashing like thunder, and neither his words nor his pace towards the throne slowed. “-cannot allow you to keep on sliding further into grief and madness, surrounded by lies and unknown enemies! A foul beast eats away at your heart, Sorianna, and you do not even see his true nature. If you will not let me warn you about war, at least let me warn you about him!” He pointed, a harsh and accusatory jab, at the space to Sorianna's right, but realized a moment later the space was empty.
A cold blade pressed against Idris' back. “I believe,” said a soft voice, “You're looking for me. How can I help you?”
Idris didn't turn around. With a momentary effort of will, he reshaped a few links of the chain mail under his finery into a thin but sharp dagger, and jabbed backwards with it, twisting to the side to avoid the counter-stroke.
The monster, inevitably, had managed to avoid his surprise attack. It stood, looking down on him with its emotionless eyes. Its seemingly-human body was draped in clothing which made several concessions to the attire of Nehal's court and had clearly been well-tailored to suit the creature's thin frame and silver hair, but remained relatively plain and obviously meant for battle. That latter quality was enhanced by the accessories it wore: a sword on each hip, a light bow slung across the back, what looked like barbed hooks mostly hidden in its tall boots, and a bandoleer of daggers along its chest (and one of them, trailing a scrap of silk, in its left hand). Apparently deciding that this was not enough weaponry, it had picked up a spear in its right hand sometime after Idris had entered the throne room.
He shivered. How long had that thing managed to stay out of his sight without his noticing?
Behind him, he could hear Emekam rushing Sorianna out of the room, against her protests. Good. Whatever hold the monster had established over her, he wanted to break it, not get her killed while fighting against it.
Idris brought his weapon up in a mock salute, reshaping it into the long-bladed glaive he favored as he did so. “Hello, Monster. I've been waiting a long time for this,” he said. “You killed good men in that attack on my palace.”
“This isn't about that,” the monster said softly. “Only about her.”
“Fair enough,” Idris replied with a cold smile. “At least I can't doubt your taste. But whatever the reason, this can only end one way. You're dying today, Monster.”
“My name,” it said, emotion creeping in at last, “is Seirajjh!”
It rushed him fast and brutally, but it wasn't as fast as it had been tearing through men at his palace, and Idris had a plan this time. He dropped his glaive and sent a surge of power through the silver threads in his gloves, deepening and widening them into an effective armor. When the spear came stabbing at him, he caught it in his hands, and reshaped the spear head into a full-sized shield, which he caught the dagger on. This barely slowed the onslaught – the monster dropped its dagger and whipped the wooden spear-shaft around two-handed, each blow ringing on Idris' defenses and driving him back step after step.
When he felt his heel come up against the edge of the massive fountain, he stopped. An instant before the next blow fell, he called out to his glaive on the floor, and brought it hurtling at his attacker's back. Somehow, the creature sensed it coming, and dropped to the ground, sweeping with its leg rather than striking with the staff, and sending Idris crashing into the water.
He sputtered back to his feet. “Really?” he asked it as he gasped for breath, “that whole arsenal, just to damage my clothing? Between my shirt and this water, you seem much more murderous towards fashion than I remember.”
“No need to draw my other weapons today,” it retorted. “Partly because while I carry them against living skin, not even you may reshape their metal without touching them first, and partly because no man should require more than a stick when disciplining a dog.”
“A real man doesn't even need that,” said Idris, and drove both his palms into the water's surface with a flicker of power. Flecks of water shot up into the air, then froze as the magic took them, transforming a splash into a barrage of ice shards screaming at the monster.
In twirled its staff, catching most of the shards in the air. Still, the wood could not handle the strain of rapid movement combined with so many projectiles, and was reduced quickly to splinters. The monster discarded it, leaping backwards a solid thirty feet as it did so. It landed standing atop on of the balconies with its bow drawn.
Idris dove into the water, leaving a sheet of ice behind him, but was too slow – a pair of arrows were already fired, and struck into his side. His world flashed with pain and the water grew clouded red, but he had no time to bind the wound, or even break off the shaft of the second arrow, which had managed to imbed itself in his leg. Unable to swim, he was floating towards the surface, and he needed an attack as soon as he got there.
A blast of steam arced from the surface of the water, drawing another arrow. That was irksome – the Monster was supposed to waste more of its ammunition on the feint. Still, Idris emerged, and the true assault began. This time, Idris was ready. As the first arrow came towards him, he fanned the heated air into an outright flame. It burned to ash, but the flame didn't stop – arrow after arrow caught in the air, spreading all the way back to the Monter's bow.
“You should take more care of your things,” Idris said, smiling as the monster dropped the charred piece of wood. “I always do.”
“You are only good at breaking things,” it snarled back with quiet rage. “Let's see what happens when you get broken.”
There was a flash of movement, and it was upon him. It didn't bother drawing another blade – as Idris raised his weapon to ward off its blows, it knocked the metal out of his hands and grabbed his throat in a choke hold. Its eyes burned into his, their usual emptiness replaced with rage and obsession.
Perfect.
It had taken Idris a lot of work to find out what sort of beast had attacked his palace, killed his retainers, then ensorceled and kidnapped his consort. It had taken him longer to find a charm capable of hurting and binding such a thing (even if it did require getting the Monster angry enough to drop its guard within his reach), and a few days work on top of more time and resources than most lesser men could imagine, if it would release Sorianna back to him, the results were worth it. A blast of brilliant white light tore out from the opals in his torque, sending the Monster staggering to the ground.
“Enough of that,” Idris said triumphantly. “You lose, Monster. I may show you some measure of mercy if you relinquish your hold on her im-” He stopped short. Quite abruptly, pain left the fallen Monster's features, and it rolled back to its feet.
“I told you that my name,” it said, looking shaken, but unhurt, “Is Seirajjh.” It drew a dagger, pointed it at Idris, and almost smiled. “And right now, I am showing mercy to you. Leave this planet. Leave her alone. Return to either one, and you die. You walk away this time, because you reminded me of something I can never forget. Something much more important than your life. Thank you. Now start walking.”
Idris smiled grimly. His weapon lay outside the reach of his hands, but not his power, to say nothing of the key ring and fallen dagger he could use, or the many magics that didn't rely upon metal he had mastered. He struck once more.
As he regained his health at the hands of the finest physicians in all of Iachus, Lord Idris Melys silently resolved to never underestimate the tenacity of monsters again.
It wasn't that he had expected a welcoming reception from Queen (Nehali, in the local language) Sorianna Al-Mourn – even after all they had shared not so long ago, she was caught up in fear and monsters, and barely knew herself from the madness that surrounded her. But, really, four layers of wards, two companies of troops, and now the elite Royal Guard was starting to seem excessive.
Some of those wards had been designed with him, personally, in mind. He tried not to think about that.
Idris sighed, and with an act of will, sent a ripple of force through his weapon, currently in the form of a flail. Fleck of Royal Guardsmens' blood splashed lightly against the walls. He checked his clothing next: his boots and loose silk pants remained presentable, the ornate buckle on his sash was only slightly dented where a spout of enchanted blood had hit it like a boar spear, and the ruffles in his shirt hid the tears the best pair of guardsmen had dealt it before he knocked them unconscious. He straighted his azure cloak, to fall billowing along his sides, leaving his arms mobile for fighting and his symbols of office visible, as it should. The four silver rings and opal-studded torque he wore were, along with his silver-threaded gloves, as flawless as always. Finally, he brushed back a wave of cream-colored hair from his brilliantly green eyes.
Good enough. Time to make an entrance.
The doors to the throne room were, of course, warded against magic, and hardened against force. As he approached them, he slipped lifted one hand, and called to it the ring of keys he remembered seeing on a Guardsman's belt. None of the keys matched the lock, of course – not even the Nehalein were proud enough to think their throne room safe with its key outside. But they had been enchanted as Castle keys, so when he remolded almost all of them into the shape of a single, giant skeleton key, the door's wards made no protest to it opening them. As the door opened, Idris smiled.
The sweeping pillars that stood around three sides of the Nehali's Court stood abandoned, as did the majestic balconies they supported. The only sound was the constant fountain of water, running through a complex nine-ringed shape on the floor. What the room lacked in number of occupants, however, the ones it had made up for with the intensity of those it had.
To the left hand of the throne stood Royal Chancilor Emekam, his dark robes and steady eyes as unwavering as ever. To the right hand of the throne stood a monster, whom Idris tried not to look at. It wasn't difficult – on the throne sat a vision of beauty with crimson hair, the intricately styled dress or Nehalein nobility, and a glare that posed more threat than any of the castle's wards. Sorianna. He hadn't seen her in far too long – his heart quickened. Of course, he had never seen her this angry. His blood chilled.
Only slightly daunted, he stepped forward. “Lord Idris Melys,” he said, using the booming tones mostly reserved for calling changes of orders during battle, “Lord of Metal, Emperor of Iachus, Protector of-”
“- somewhere else,” Sorianna snarled. “I recommend you go back there. Now.”
“I would,” replied Idris, keeping his composure, “but for the small matter of an army marching on your world, which I fear will soon overrun you unless you hear me out.”
Emekam's face betrayed no expressions during negotiation, but his tone was disappointed. “Threats and blackmail, Lord Idris? Had I known you stooped this low, I would not have advised Her Majesty to grant you audience.”
Idris blinked. “That's not-”
Sorianna cut him off again. “Blackmail is nothing new. But I did not grant you an audience. On top everything – everything! - else you've done, you attacked my people? Here, on sacred ground?”
Idris held up the flail in his left hand. “Only a little. I was a perfect gentleman – I chose a weapon which could deal stunning blows, disarm people easily, and has never been formally taught on this world.” He smiled wryly. “I barely even drew blood.”
Emekam nodded. “Our thanks for that.” His voice had sounded genuinely warm for a moment, but grew flat as he continued. “But to come in here and threaten us with war if we do not act as you wish – that remains inexcusable. You have proven quite the conqueror, Lord Idris, but I never would have suspected you to be a simple thug.”
“This is not about my army. You must listen – the Illuthiani are preparing for war.”
“Your alliance with our oldest enemies is known to us, Lord,” said Emekam evenly, his voice cold as ice.
“What?” Idris gasped in genuine surprise – he had made no such alliance, and Emekam's intelligence was generally quite reliable. “Who told you that?”
“It makes no difference,” Emekam replied, sadly. “This discussion is over.”
“No,” said Idris, stepping closer to the throne. “I cannot allow-”
Sorianna cut in again “It is not for you to allow-”
But Idris voice was crashing like thunder, and neither his words nor his pace towards the throne slowed. “-cannot allow you to keep on sliding further into grief and madness, surrounded by lies and unknown enemies! A foul beast eats away at your heart, Sorianna, and you do not even see his true nature. If you will not let me warn you about war, at least let me warn you about him!” He pointed, a harsh and accusatory jab, at the space to Sorianna's right, but realized a moment later the space was empty.
A cold blade pressed against Idris' back. “I believe,” said a soft voice, “You're looking for me. How can I help you?”
Idris didn't turn around. With a momentary effort of will, he reshaped a few links of the chain mail under his finery into a thin but sharp dagger, and jabbed backwards with it, twisting to the side to avoid the counter-stroke.
The monster, inevitably, had managed to avoid his surprise attack. It stood, looking down on him with its emotionless eyes. Its seemingly-human body was draped in clothing which made several concessions to the attire of Nehal's court and had clearly been well-tailored to suit the creature's thin frame and silver hair, but remained relatively plain and obviously meant for battle. That latter quality was enhanced by the accessories it wore: a sword on each hip, a light bow slung across the back, what looked like barbed hooks mostly hidden in its tall boots, and a bandoleer of daggers along its chest (and one of them, trailing a scrap of silk, in its left hand). Apparently deciding that this was not enough weaponry, it had picked up a spear in its right hand sometime after Idris had entered the throne room.
He shivered. How long had that thing managed to stay out of his sight without his noticing?
Behind him, he could hear Emekam rushing Sorianna out of the room, against her protests. Good. Whatever hold the monster had established over her, he wanted to break it, not get her killed while fighting against it.
Idris brought his weapon up in a mock salute, reshaping it into the long-bladed glaive he favored as he did so. “Hello, Monster. I've been waiting a long time for this,” he said. “You killed good men in that attack on my palace.”
“This isn't about that,” the monster said softly. “Only about her.”
“Fair enough,” Idris replied with a cold smile. “At least I can't doubt your taste. But whatever the reason, this can only end one way. You're dying today, Monster.”
“My name,” it said, emotion creeping in at last, “is Seirajjh!”
It rushed him fast and brutally, but it wasn't as fast as it had been tearing through men at his palace, and Idris had a plan this time. He dropped his glaive and sent a surge of power through the silver threads in his gloves, deepening and widening them into an effective armor. When the spear came stabbing at him, he caught it in his hands, and reshaped the spear head into a full-sized shield, which he caught the dagger on. This barely slowed the onslaught – the monster dropped its dagger and whipped the wooden spear-shaft around two-handed, each blow ringing on Idris' defenses and driving him back step after step.
When he felt his heel come up against the edge of the massive fountain, he stopped. An instant before the next blow fell, he called out to his glaive on the floor, and brought it hurtling at his attacker's back. Somehow, the creature sensed it coming, and dropped to the ground, sweeping with its leg rather than striking with the staff, and sending Idris crashing into the water.
He sputtered back to his feet. “Really?” he asked it as he gasped for breath, “that whole arsenal, just to damage my clothing? Between my shirt and this water, you seem much more murderous towards fashion than I remember.”
“No need to draw my other weapons today,” it retorted. “Partly because while I carry them against living skin, not even you may reshape their metal without touching them first, and partly because no man should require more than a stick when disciplining a dog.”
“A real man doesn't even need that,” said Idris, and drove both his palms into the water's surface with a flicker of power. Flecks of water shot up into the air, then froze as the magic took them, transforming a splash into a barrage of ice shards screaming at the monster.
In twirled its staff, catching most of the shards in the air. Still, the wood could not handle the strain of rapid movement combined with so many projectiles, and was reduced quickly to splinters. The monster discarded it, leaping backwards a solid thirty feet as it did so. It landed standing atop on of the balconies with its bow drawn.
Idris dove into the water, leaving a sheet of ice behind him, but was too slow – a pair of arrows were already fired, and struck into his side. His world flashed with pain and the water grew clouded red, but he had no time to bind the wound, or even break off the shaft of the second arrow, which had managed to imbed itself in his leg. Unable to swim, he was floating towards the surface, and he needed an attack as soon as he got there.
A blast of steam arced from the surface of the water, drawing another arrow. That was irksome – the Monster was supposed to waste more of its ammunition on the feint. Still, Idris emerged, and the true assault began. This time, Idris was ready. As the first arrow came towards him, he fanned the heated air into an outright flame. It burned to ash, but the flame didn't stop – arrow after arrow caught in the air, spreading all the way back to the Monter's bow.
“You should take more care of your things,” Idris said, smiling as the monster dropped the charred piece of wood. “I always do.”
“You are only good at breaking things,” it snarled back with quiet rage. “Let's see what happens when you get broken.”
There was a flash of movement, and it was upon him. It didn't bother drawing another blade – as Idris raised his weapon to ward off its blows, it knocked the metal out of his hands and grabbed his throat in a choke hold. Its eyes burned into his, their usual emptiness replaced with rage and obsession.
Perfect.
It had taken Idris a lot of work to find out what sort of beast had attacked his palace, killed his retainers, then ensorceled and kidnapped his consort. It had taken him longer to find a charm capable of hurting and binding such a thing (even if it did require getting the Monster angry enough to drop its guard within his reach), and a few days work on top of more time and resources than most lesser men could imagine, if it would release Sorianna back to him, the results were worth it. A blast of brilliant white light tore out from the opals in his torque, sending the Monster staggering to the ground.
“Enough of that,” Idris said triumphantly. “You lose, Monster. I may show you some measure of mercy if you relinquish your hold on her im-” He stopped short. Quite abruptly, pain left the fallen Monster's features, and it rolled back to its feet.
“I told you that my name,” it said, looking shaken, but unhurt, “Is Seirajjh.” It drew a dagger, pointed it at Idris, and almost smiled. “And right now, I am showing mercy to you. Leave this planet. Leave her alone. Return to either one, and you die. You walk away this time, because you reminded me of something I can never forget. Something much more important than your life. Thank you. Now start walking.”
Idris smiled grimly. His weapon lay outside the reach of his hands, but not his power, to say nothing of the key ring and fallen dagger he could use, or the many magics that didn't rely upon metal he had mastered. He struck once more.
As he regained his health at the hands of the finest physicians in all of Iachus, Lord Idris Melys silently resolved to never underestimate the tenacity of monsters again.
At least I didn't choose limericks
Red sores everywhere
Skin gone apocalyptic
From this damn Ivy
Pain, itching, redness
Just a few of the joys reap'd
Climbing the wrong tree
Still, I am consoled
Better suffer this great pain
Than bad poetry
Skin gone apocalyptic
From this damn Ivy
Pain, itching, redness
Just a few of the joys reap'd
Climbing the wrong tree
Still, I am consoled
Better suffer this great pain
Than bad poetry
06 February 2010
Art, And The Artless
The second is the hardest step of almost any process.
People think a lot about the first step. It is a doozy with which the journey of a thousand miles begins, and all that. But that is the delight of a first step: it is an unknown, an adventure, an experiment.
Second steps aren't like that.
A second step must fight against not just the resistance of the first step's shortcomings (and it must fight those - every mistake made in the first step counts twice over as the second compensates, and the simple fact of those failings can be cripplingly demoralizing, both to the person taking the steps and to anyone else watching the process), but against the first step's success. After a good beginning, there is an irrational desire to rest on one's laurels and skip the second step with its capacity to fall short of that mark entirely. After a while, built up momentum will keep you going, but a single success casts long shadows of fearful failure.
This isn't just my opinion - the international community calls a democracy functional after the second free election (so often, the winners of the first free election decide they don't need another), many hostile standoffs end after the second show of force (this is why the U.S. government decided it needed to slaughter two large groups of Japanese civilians with atomic weapons in 1945), and rhetorical lists like this one tend towards three examples because of how uncomfortably the inconsistencies get highlighted between just two (yes, there are other reasons as well - start your own blog to talk about them).
There are other challenges as well: an artist, for example, has to worry about their second work being too similar to their first, lest they go the way of Guy Ritchie and M Knight Shyamalan and become shoehorned into a single oeuvre*.
Which leads me to this rant. A part of me just wants to make a random bit of fiction as I did yesterday - really, I expect most of the posts here to lie in that vein. But I want to remind myself and the vast, callous reaches of the internet that there's more to Cogito Ex Nihilo than flash fiction (for a blog of nothing but that, check out Ommatidia.org, which really does that better than I am yet able to, anyway). This is the canvas of my ever-changing mind, on which to practice my art, and sometimes, that means a self-indulgent rant. Actually, it almost always means a self-indulgent rants, but some rants are more involved with humor and fiction than others.
Because I do intend to be an artist. The term is irritatingly hard to define, and anyone who really tries to narrow it down generally cuts out verbal arts first, on their way down to leaving nothing but oil paintings and classical concertos. I am seldom one to argue against an elitist definition, but that one seems silly to me: Limiting art - a term so often associated with pushing the limits and boundaries of thought and society - by anything so crass as mode of expression is caging the angel. At the same time, I wouldn't want to leave the notion utterly undefined. You cannot simply shit on the ground and call it art (at the very least, it would depend on how well you did it). Therefore, I propose this standard: Art is the striving to approach perfection. And that striving, that desire for both practice and feedback (and I urge you, as-yet-theoretical readers, give me feedback - glowing praise and vitriolic hatred are equally valuable to me in this) is what Cogito Ex Nihilo (by any other name, should I change it) is all about.
That's my outlook right now, anyway. I'm sure that eventually, someone will find a hole in that definition, and I shall need to think of something much more difficult: a second try.
-- The Ben Freeman
People think a lot about the first step. It is a doozy with which the journey of a thousand miles begins, and all that. But that is the delight of a first step: it is an unknown, an adventure, an experiment.
Second steps aren't like that.
A second step must fight against not just the resistance of the first step's shortcomings (and it must fight those - every mistake made in the first step counts twice over as the second compensates, and the simple fact of those failings can be cripplingly demoralizing, both to the person taking the steps and to anyone else watching the process), but against the first step's success. After a good beginning, there is an irrational desire to rest on one's laurels and skip the second step with its capacity to fall short of that mark entirely. After a while, built up momentum will keep you going, but a single success casts long shadows of fearful failure.
This isn't just my opinion - the international community calls a democracy functional after the second free election (so often, the winners of the first free election decide they don't need another), many hostile standoffs end after the second show of force (this is why the U.S. government decided it needed to slaughter two large groups of Japanese civilians with atomic weapons in 1945), and rhetorical lists like this one tend towards three examples because of how uncomfortably the inconsistencies get highlighted between just two (yes, there are other reasons as well - start your own blog to talk about them).
There are other challenges as well: an artist, for example, has to worry about their second work being too similar to their first, lest they go the way of Guy Ritchie and M Knight Shyamalan and become shoehorned into a single oeuvre*.
Which leads me to this rant. A part of me just wants to make a random bit of fiction as I did yesterday - really, I expect most of the posts here to lie in that vein. But I want to remind myself and the vast, callous reaches of the internet that there's more to Cogito Ex Nihilo than flash fiction (for a blog of nothing but that, check out Ommatidia.org, which really does that better than I am yet able to, anyway). This is the canvas of my ever-changing mind, on which to practice my art, and sometimes, that means a self-indulgent rant. Actually, it almost always means a self-indulgent rants, but some rants are more involved with humor and fiction than others.
Because I do intend to be an artist. The term is irritatingly hard to define, and anyone who really tries to narrow it down generally cuts out verbal arts first, on their way down to leaving nothing but oil paintings and classical concertos. I am seldom one to argue against an elitist definition, but that one seems silly to me: Limiting art - a term so often associated with pushing the limits and boundaries of thought and society - by anything so crass as mode of expression is caging the angel. At the same time, I wouldn't want to leave the notion utterly undefined. You cannot simply shit on the ground and call it art (at the very least, it would depend on how well you did it). Therefore, I propose this standard: Art is the striving to approach perfection. And that striving, that desire for both practice and feedback (and I urge you, as-yet-theoretical readers, give me feedback - glowing praise and vitriolic hatred are equally valuable to me in this) is what Cogito Ex Nihilo (by any other name, should I change it) is all about.
That's my outlook right now, anyway. I'm sure that eventually, someone will find a hole in that definition, and I shall need to think of something much more difficult: a second try.
-- The Ben Freeman
Time-Traveling Adventurer And Robot Butler
Mohamed Caesar Napoleon Ramses Qin The Sixteenth (and also the sixth, eleventh, seventy-third, and πth, though he wasn't using any of those iterations right now, due to the damnable politics of the Linnear Convention) took a deep breath of the wind whipping past his face and wondered what sort of wine went best with giant mutated ant meat. There were so few timelines where it was available, and fewer still with any proper gourmands left alive to give him advice. It was intolerable, really - once that conservative idiot neandrathal lost the next election and the Linear Society loosened rules on branching histories, he would need to smuggle a few back to prerevolutionary France and see what Versailles (not Cleopatra Moctezuma Nuwa Washington Versailles The Third - the residents of the flat-time city itself) came up with. He was still wondering whether it was worth taking them back further and letting an entire culinary tradition develop around them somewhere in southeast Asia when Mark announced quietly, "Master, we are now approaching the ground at terminal velocity. I would recommend a plan."
Mohammed Qin swore, but since he used the dialect of 24th century Beaucrana where profanities were classified as munitions, it didn't sound all that bad. "Authorization gamma zero one seven," he muttered. "This is what happens when I don't have a good breakfast." Then, he saw the solution, as clear as the massive shape of earth rushing up at him. "Hey, that's it! Mark, go back to this morning and cook me a big breakfast!"
"As you wish, Master," said Mark, and disappeared.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Bionetic Domestic Model K4T, Mark-1 was having a harried morning. Its master was refusing to eat breakfast, due to some incomprehensible raving about an army of savages riding mutant ants trying to destroy us all, and the need to escape before said savages killed, ate, and rendered down for twinkies everything in their path. That probably meant yet another journey through time, to yet another place where they hadn't even invented the tuxedo yet, or where they were outlawed by the cybergods for making physical bodies look too good, or where the Penguin Men from Alpha Centauri mistook you for their long-lost brother, or some other such nonsense which complicated the acts of a properly-functioning butler. To top it off, one of his past-time duplicates was trying to explain to him that, though they had tried their best to make Master eat a healthy breakfast as he ran away from a small and ill-mannered army the first time, it was now his direct order that they try harder.
Some days, Mark processed, a butler just couldn't win.
"Master," said Mark, calm despite flying along at over 30 miles per hour to match the (now malfunctioning) rocket boots of his difficult charge, "how do you deal with all the troubles?"
"Mostly," gasped his master, "I try to escape the consequences by abusing cosmic power." He paused for a moment, ducking a sloppily-thrown parking meter. "Hey, that's it! Mark, take us somewhere a long way from anyone I've pissed off!"
The future time shadow made a desperate gesture, but no real Butler could ignore its charge. "As you wish, master," said Mark, and they both disappeared.
Mohammed Qin swore, but since he used the dialect of 24th century Beaucrana where profanities were classified as munitions, it didn't sound all that bad. "Authorization gamma zero one seven," he muttered. "This is what happens when I don't have a good breakfast." Then, he saw the solution, as clear as the massive shape of earth rushing up at him. "Hey, that's it! Mark, go back to this morning and cook me a big breakfast!"
"As you wish, Master," said Mark, and disappeared.
Bionetic Domestic Model K4T, Mark-1 was having a harried morning. Its master was refusing to eat breakfast, due to some incomprehensible raving about an army of savages riding mutant ants trying to destroy us all, and the need to escape before said savages killed, ate, and rendered down for twinkies everything in their path. That probably meant yet another journey through time, to yet another place where they hadn't even invented the tuxedo yet, or where they were outlawed by the cybergods for making physical bodies look too good, or where the Penguin Men from Alpha Centauri mistook you for their long-lost brother, or some other such nonsense which complicated the acts of a properly-functioning butler. To top it off, one of his past-time duplicates was trying to explain to him that, though they had tried their best to make Master eat a healthy breakfast as he ran away from a small and ill-mannered army the first time, it was now his direct order that they try harder.
Some days, Mark processed, a butler just couldn't win.
"Master," said Mark, calm despite flying along at over 30 miles per hour to match the (now malfunctioning) rocket boots of his difficult charge, "how do you deal with all the troubles?"
"Mostly," gasped his master, "I try to escape the consequences by abusing cosmic power." He paused for a moment, ducking a sloppily-thrown parking meter. "Hey, that's it! Mark, take us somewhere a long way from anyone I've pissed off!"
The future time shadow made a desperate gesture, but no real Butler could ignore its charge. "As you wish, master," said Mark, and they both disappeared.
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