The world was ablaze; slick rafters hung limp from the ramparts, fire-glazed and oozing heat, while charred bodies adorned the turrets and towers lining the inner wall, garlanded along its entire length. Azurus was an orgy of burning gold in the aftermath of the assault, the pungent odor of sulfuric vapors thick in the nighttime air, stilling a dozen gazes that cared to look anywhere.
Attacks were unheard of after sunset, but the Council wouldn't be persuaded: the camp reeked of sorcerous intentions, spells so powerful that they had to be cast over time, locked with moments, fermented for weeks before they could gather the momentum necessary to fell the ancient stronghold. In the sky, a murky green storm swirled around a spinning black vortex, a wound in the empyrean that had bled the darkness that came before the blight, and now throbbed gently with a festering pus of decapitated limbs, falling gently instead of a freshwater monsoon.
A few feet from the metallic pedestal upon which they had been bound, the generals of Azurus looked on from behind the capricious, but altogether serving a simple purpose of their own, jute ropes that hung limply from their wrists and ankles. The undersides of their feet were already covered in blisters scorched onto their pale skin, but the pain of their flesh was nothing against the pain of their losses: the hundreds of thousands of soldiers who had decided to camp with them for the night were all dead; a deathly mist still susurrated over the ground gathering within its phantasmagoric embrace the remnants of a hundred thousands souls. They would be drawn into the ground, the soil made rich with their visions and memories, and the power would accumulate until it could be drawn again by their sorcerer.
Their sorcerer! Where was he, their mighty sorcerer? He had warned of some perils earlier, but none had heeded him, not even himself - unmindful as he had been with the confidence of a thousand warriors standing guard, even the most conspicuous of threats are ignored when knowledge of resurrection, victory and salvation is secure.
The general named Hundar was the first to give voice to their fears, stepping onto a mound of the dead in front of him, and shouted, loud and clear, "Valan!" There was no response, if the stirring of winds could be discounted, and those around him stiffened: Valan was their strongest sorcerer, a man invested with such skill that he rivaled the gods themselves, and if Valan had fallen with the culling, then their hopes stood for nothing.
While Knath and Del raised their arms skyward and prepared to conjure a mana of rejuvenation, Hundar continued to shout into the young and weeping world of aurum, looking for his brother. Quivinen, a shapeshifting huntress, quickly sprinted away on the swift paws of a giant wolf to scout around the perimeter, perhaps to look for anything that might help their cause that dreary night. A moment or two after she had disappeared from sight, a dull and argent glow began to spread around the grounds, a Healing Tide, that would awaken those still alive from their merciful stupors of injury, as Knath would prepare the Ankh of Resurrection. A hundred, perhaps two hundred at best, would be released from lifelessness and into life, a journey that would leave them dazed and disoriented, but they would be released nonetheless.
Just then, a form stood up, erect, on a ridge to Hundar's left that banked the subterranean transportation corridor that spanned the barracks from the armory, aubergine in texture, a grease-soaked loincloth in place. It was Valan, great Valan, screaming in agony, his skin devoid of all moisture and beginning to peel off to leave exposed his bankrupt flesh, his eyeballs having long before abacinated with the incubating heat.
It was an arresting discovery for the three generals simply because Valan, though resurrected, was blind, deaf and, in all likelihood, mostly paralyzed, and his screams were completely the depiction of all his pain, neither chamfered nor muted in any measure with any emotional persuasions. He was like an infant doused in a greedy acid, one moment nestled in a blanket of contentment and the next, tugged back quickly into the depths of his failures and left to face...
No, left not to face all that ordeal and torment on the road to freedom once more but something else much simpler, the torment of conviction. If he could have bawled, he would have until he had fallen to the floor once more. Hundar ran to his side to assist him as he stumbled on the loosened and sifting soil, and the moment Valan felt those hands on him, he sunk into unconsciousness.
Showing posts with label fantasy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fantasy. Show all posts
Sunday, 6 November 2011
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Charter city
Moran is a creation of mine, a massive, albeit fictitious, city that functions as a dump of my imagination. Anything I write that doesn't find a place elsewhere finds itself chamfered to fit within its walls. There's science fiction, too, hidden beneath layers and layers of magic - which I tend to desist and instead reconfigure as something scientific. The following is only an archive of the most basic ideas surrounding the city. If you think you could make a story out of something, feel free. It's an OpenSource city.
Creation
The walls of Moran descended almost the length of a league before quickly plunging into the dark-brown soil of the Peruhn marshlands. Its once-white walls now sported stains of ochre that rivulets of dirt and grime carried down daily from the lifeless ramparts. Of course, that was only to the north, wherefrom assaults in the city's recent history had been all but absent, while the other three quadrants remained heavily and persistently manned hour after hour, a clear signal to the hardy settlement's neighbours about its attitude.
The city itself began a hundred yards from the superstructure, the concentric proclivity of its roads emerging as one moved centripetally. Not surprisingly, they also designated the formal contours of wealth accumulated by those living in the quarters flanking them, as if emanating from the quatral mines at the heart of the city. The metal itself was precious simply because it weighed almost nothing but could resist damage for periods much longer than a blade of steel.
Administration
Halfway between the innermost ring and the outermost row of soldiers' lodgings toward the southwest, the sprawling ministerial conclave housed the Moranian senate, called the Padun, and the council's meeting chambers. A short but rather bloody 700-year old history had ensured that power within Moran didn't rest in the hands of one man or woman, but a group that was somehow always skilled enough to disrupt daily life but conduct wars with clinical precision.
At this juncture, it becomes necessary to understand the city's design for what it is: with the slaves working at the mines at the center of the city, the necessity for them to pass into the more affluent areas becomes eliminated, in effect making Moran a huge prison populated by hundreds of thousands. At the same time, before condemnation is heaped upon the ministers, it must also be noted that Moran was, overall, a traders' establishment. If not for the quatral, there was no reason for such numbers of people to settle down next to a marshland.
Now, the members of the council, known collectively in common parlance as Dryjhna, "the veiled ones", were sixteen men, women and eunuchs, in no fixed numbers, who presided over the goings-on of the city. Although all of them effectively represented the merchants, the blacksmiths, and the marketeers of the city, the relevance of a ruling council as such became significant only in the face of pestilence and/or war. The first priority was to regulate the export and price of the quatral, and quick to follow was the sustenance of an ambition to forge an empire around the only quatral mines on the entire continent.
Politics
Moranians had rivals everywhere. The harbor on the southern tip of the city serviced a bay that banked the smaller Borean tribe and a colony of the much-more formidable Tarthenal, a race of barbaric warriors who had settled down on the continent more than two millennia past, the building of Moral thus only serving to spurn them. Even though trade flourished between the three, diplomatic relations were cold with no solution in sight. The Tarthenal wanted the Moranians to go; the Moranians wanted the Tarthenal to leave them alone.
Toward the east and the northeast, the Me'avulo Empire laid claim to all the lands, including the Karp mountain range that rent the kingdom in two. Ruled by the Lord Kulpath, the kingdom was passive in every way and, consequently, relations with the Moranians were peaceful. However, despite the monarchic polity, Lord Kulpath ruled in the name of the deity called Nuhe, notorious on the continent itself for the rumored cannibalistic rituals and other ritualistic excesses surrounding its worship, Nuhevin. Of course, these were all practices keenly guarded.
On the northern front of the landmass were the remains of the Shattered Dwellings, a mysterious stretch of rubble and hubris that seemed to all have been blasted to the ground by unimaginable forces, for the pillars that still stood seemed of immense girth and even greater resilience. Swathing an area of almost 2,000 leagues to a side, the vast rectangle reeked of godliness and immortal conflict. However, a more important cause for concern presented itself in the form of the Dwellings' destruction: who? And how?
More soon to follow...
Creation
The walls of Moran descended almost the length of a league before quickly plunging into the dark-brown soil of the Peruhn marshlands. Its once-white walls now sported stains of ochre that rivulets of dirt and grime carried down daily from the lifeless ramparts. Of course, that was only to the north, wherefrom assaults in the city's recent history had been all but absent, while the other three quadrants remained heavily and persistently manned hour after hour, a clear signal to the hardy settlement's neighbours about its attitude.
The city itself began a hundred yards from the superstructure, the concentric proclivity of its roads emerging as one moved centripetally. Not surprisingly, they also designated the formal contours of wealth accumulated by those living in the quarters flanking them, as if emanating from the quatral mines at the heart of the city. The metal itself was precious simply because it weighed almost nothing but could resist damage for periods much longer than a blade of steel.
Administration
Halfway between the innermost ring and the outermost row of soldiers' lodgings toward the southwest, the sprawling ministerial conclave housed the Moranian senate, called the Padun, and the council's meeting chambers. A short but rather bloody 700-year old history had ensured that power within Moran didn't rest in the hands of one man or woman, but a group that was somehow always skilled enough to disrupt daily life but conduct wars with clinical precision.
At this juncture, it becomes necessary to understand the city's design for what it is: with the slaves working at the mines at the center of the city, the necessity for them to pass into the more affluent areas becomes eliminated, in effect making Moran a huge prison populated by hundreds of thousands. At the same time, before condemnation is heaped upon the ministers, it must also be noted that Moran was, overall, a traders' establishment. If not for the quatral, there was no reason for such numbers of people to settle down next to a marshland.
Now, the members of the council, known collectively in common parlance as Dryjhna, "the veiled ones", were sixteen men, women and eunuchs, in no fixed numbers, who presided over the goings-on of the city. Although all of them effectively represented the merchants, the blacksmiths, and the marketeers of the city, the relevance of a ruling council as such became significant only in the face of pestilence and/or war. The first priority was to regulate the export and price of the quatral, and quick to follow was the sustenance of an ambition to forge an empire around the only quatral mines on the entire continent.
Politics
Moranians had rivals everywhere. The harbor on the southern tip of the city serviced a bay that banked the smaller Borean tribe and a colony of the much-more formidable Tarthenal, a race of barbaric warriors who had settled down on the continent more than two millennia past, the building of Moral thus only serving to spurn them. Even though trade flourished between the three, diplomatic relations were cold with no solution in sight. The Tarthenal wanted the Moranians to go; the Moranians wanted the Tarthenal to leave them alone.
Toward the east and the northeast, the Me'avulo Empire laid claim to all the lands, including the Karp mountain range that rent the kingdom in two. Ruled by the Lord Kulpath, the kingdom was passive in every way and, consequently, relations with the Moranians were peaceful. However, despite the monarchic polity, Lord Kulpath ruled in the name of the deity called Nuhe, notorious on the continent itself for the rumored cannibalistic rituals and other ritualistic excesses surrounding its worship, Nuhevin. Of course, these were all practices keenly guarded.
On the northern front of the landmass were the remains of the Shattered Dwellings, a mysterious stretch of rubble and hubris that seemed to all have been blasted to the ground by unimaginable forces, for the pillars that still stood seemed of immense girth and even greater resilience. Swathing an area of almost 2,000 leagues to a side, the vast rectangle reeked of godliness and immortal conflict. However, a more important cause for concern presented itself in the form of the Dwellings' destruction: who? And how?
More soon to follow...
Monday, 2 May 2011
Crest of a knave: A short story
Listen to my story, all ye assembled here in this hall of gold, listen to my story before I set forth with the lust for glory and decay in my blood boils over, its wrath absterging all shreds of loyalty and honour in me. Listen to my story, all ye assembled in this hall of light, for you would hold me devious culprit in this dark affair of travesty and injustice whereas I would hold myself, sans lea or passage, owed the duty of the last word before your judgment scars my destiny forever.
A thousand years ago, while I was still a young man of speed and spirit, I loved a woman of Troban beyond the wishes of my father or hers, and we were discoverers of joy unbounded in the arms of the other and wished, fools that we were, that it would remain so, impenetrable by the poisoned spears of our warrior-brothers or reigned back by the ties we still cherished with our mothers or by the religion that sought to punish us all for the evils of our forefathers; you remember the times, lords and ladies, you do, I know! Those were horrible days of great loss and much deplorable grief, days when freedom faded quickly from memory to return with the intoxicating fumes of khalam only at night.
Our companionship, as has always been, was soon sighted, slighted, condemned for no other reason than the rifts within our peoples, and me and she were soon flung apart, reprimanded and whipped until our flesh burned red with the fire of agony, disappointment and the promise we made unto ourselves repeatedly that there would come a day when our spirits would be reawakened by another foe, a promise that we would succumb to the threat of mortality that always spurs us on against another man, a promise that we would take up spear and shield, sword and gauntlet, and fight to the death all the men who stood between me and her, who stood between her and me.
However, that was not to be so, for soon, she was in love with another man. Oh, the sacrilege rent my heart in two and its tears flooded, I was stricken with not the monstrous affront to my being but quite something else, a curious mixture of acceptance and depravity, as if I had been rewarded with the admonishment of a great father who, with one hand, struck me down and taught me a lesson and, with another, picked me up and dared to walk; I knew not what to do, for she was no longer mine and the saddening truth of that alone lingered in all its palatable cruelty. That he was a great warrior of Troban meant nothing to me for I knew already that he would be the last to be slain as she must and will watch on, the death of a lover, a commemoration of the execution of love itself.
Soon, circumstance bore down upon me, carrying upon their broad shoulders much fortune, and I was swept like a broken vessel upon a strong tide to different shores, vast shores, peopled not with memories nor judgments but with purpose and direction, led by a great king in whose services I found employ and my faith once more in the need for allegiance and friendship in our bloodied lands. Here I stand before you, a great minister of the King of all Troban, and I, his aide, his confidante, his friend, his advisor, his hand that throws down only so it may pick up once more the young man it sought to make an example of all those years ago, and the woman you now see standing before you, pleading unto you that I be imprisoned for all that I have brought upon her... that woman... that woman...
Her husband, that man, that veteran, or thus she would hold, of many, many wars, hundreds of battles, he is now captured by the Lords of the Cult, and now she pleads unto you to imprison me, to sacrifice me unto your foes so she may remit what she herself broke. What would you do? What would you do?! Would you lock me behind bars and set me forth in a vessel so I may be received by my torturers and executioners or would you have me stand guard into the night? Would you handicap I, only a man, for the sake of his youthful follies and now besmirch all his sacrifices or would you give me my freedom only once more as I ask her... as I ask her...
Do you want me to save your lover? Do you want me to be the man you hated, the man you despised, because he valued justice more than concern so you could betray his love and seek consolation in the arms of another? Or would you rather that I was the man you were with once, and have me be the saviour you so direly seek?
Listen to me, all you folks assembled here, before you go about besmirching my name! I've a story to tell before you listen to the words of the woman before you and pass a judgment that'd only be made with incomplete information. After all, I am owed a word before I am punished.
Long ago, I loved a woman of Troban, and neither of our fathers were supportive of it. It was a terrible time, what with all the civil wars and other such needless battles causing more rifts than we needed. In each other's arms, we found the relief we really needed at the time, and not only did we find it, but we were entranced by it.
Needless to say, our fathers found out about it and tore us apart, calling upon all sorts of religious rites and says to condemn us further; they used us to vent the anger they bore for the world around. We might've understood their wrath, but what I knew I'd always hate and avenge was the wrath of the people who stood by my father on the day he passed judgment on us. That day, I swore I'd slay them all even if at the price of my honour.
Soon, however, something happed that left me like a shattered mirror: seeing with a thousand eyes the horror of her walking hand-in-hand with another man, another lover, so soon after we were forced to leave each other's side. I didn't what to do then, I didn't understand it, but I only told myself that this man would also die by my blade. He'd die while she watches him bleed.
After that, my fortunes in trade and other things began to pick up and I set off on a journey to a new city. All the people there were new to me. I knew then that they didn't deserve my blighted past, they didn't deserve to be at the brunt of my voiceless rage. I changed my lifestyle, I changed the way I was; I became more responsible and soon was employed by the King.
Now, I'm your minister, and your King's right-hand man. I've stood by you all, protecting you, saving you, nourishing you, pushing you to seek your dreams without fearing any foe. Now, this woman here is that lover I spoke of, and now, she tells you all to sacrifice me as ransom so she can get back her lover from those who've captured him.
He was a man of courage she said, and now, as fate would have it, the blade at his throat pierces at my will. Now, I ask you to tell me if I still will have your mercy and be allowed to decide for myself... whether I choose to mend my heart and leave it broken for your sake. Having known you good men and women for so long, I will take the liberty to assume a just answer.
Now, woman, I ask you: I was once a man who cared for justice, and that was the man you hated; I was once a man who cared for love, and that was the man you loved. Who do you want me to be now? Do you want me to be the one you hated so you can feel fine about leaving me? Or do you want me to be the man you loved so he can save your lover?
A thousand years ago, while I was still a young man of speed and spirit, I loved a woman of Troban beyond the wishes of my father or hers, and we were discoverers of joy unbounded in the arms of the other and wished, fools that we were, that it would remain so, impenetrable by the poisoned spears of our warrior-brothers or reigned back by the ties we still cherished with our mothers or by the religion that sought to punish us all for the evils of our forefathers; you remember the times, lords and ladies, you do, I know! Those were horrible days of great loss and much deplorable grief, days when freedom faded quickly from memory to return with the intoxicating fumes of khalam only at night.
Our companionship, as has always been, was soon sighted, slighted, condemned for no other reason than the rifts within our peoples, and me and she were soon flung apart, reprimanded and whipped until our flesh burned red with the fire of agony, disappointment and the promise we made unto ourselves repeatedly that there would come a day when our spirits would be reawakened by another foe, a promise that we would succumb to the threat of mortality that always spurs us on against another man, a promise that we would take up spear and shield, sword and gauntlet, and fight to the death all the men who stood between me and her, who stood between her and me.
However, that was not to be so, for soon, she was in love with another man. Oh, the sacrilege rent my heart in two and its tears flooded, I was stricken with not the monstrous affront to my being but quite something else, a curious mixture of acceptance and depravity, as if I had been rewarded with the admonishment of a great father who, with one hand, struck me down and taught me a lesson and, with another, picked me up and dared to walk; I knew not what to do, for she was no longer mine and the saddening truth of that alone lingered in all its palatable cruelty. That he was a great warrior of Troban meant nothing to me for I knew already that he would be the last to be slain as she must and will watch on, the death of a lover, a commemoration of the execution of love itself.
Soon, circumstance bore down upon me, carrying upon their broad shoulders much fortune, and I was swept like a broken vessel upon a strong tide to different shores, vast shores, peopled not with memories nor judgments but with purpose and direction, led by a great king in whose services I found employ and my faith once more in the need for allegiance and friendship in our bloodied lands. Here I stand before you, a great minister of the King of all Troban, and I, his aide, his confidante, his friend, his advisor, his hand that throws down only so it may pick up once more the young man it sought to make an example of all those years ago, and the woman you now see standing before you, pleading unto you that I be imprisoned for all that I have brought upon her... that woman... that woman...
Her husband, that man, that veteran, or thus she would hold, of many, many wars, hundreds of battles, he is now captured by the Lords of the Cult, and now she pleads unto you to imprison me, to sacrifice me unto your foes so she may remit what she herself broke. What would you do? What would you do?! Would you lock me behind bars and set me forth in a vessel so I may be received by my torturers and executioners or would you have me stand guard into the night? Would you handicap I, only a man, for the sake of his youthful follies and now besmirch all his sacrifices or would you give me my freedom only once more as I ask her... as I ask her...
Do you want me to save your lover? Do you want me to be the man you hated, the man you despised, because he valued justice more than concern so you could betray his love and seek consolation in the arms of another? Or would you rather that I was the man you were with once, and have me be the saviour you so direly seek?
*
Simpler version
Listen to me, all you folks assembled here, before you go about besmirching my name! I've a story to tell before you listen to the words of the woman before you and pass a judgment that'd only be made with incomplete information. After all, I am owed a word before I am punished.
Long ago, I loved a woman of Troban, and neither of our fathers were supportive of it. It was a terrible time, what with all the civil wars and other such needless battles causing more rifts than we needed. In each other's arms, we found the relief we really needed at the time, and not only did we find it, but we were entranced by it.
Needless to say, our fathers found out about it and tore us apart, calling upon all sorts of religious rites and says to condemn us further; they used us to vent the anger they bore for the world around. We might've understood their wrath, but what I knew I'd always hate and avenge was the wrath of the people who stood by my father on the day he passed judgment on us. That day, I swore I'd slay them all even if at the price of my honour.
Soon, however, something happed that left me like a shattered mirror: seeing with a thousand eyes the horror of her walking hand-in-hand with another man, another lover, so soon after we were forced to leave each other's side. I didn't what to do then, I didn't understand it, but I only told myself that this man would also die by my blade. He'd die while she watches him bleed.
After that, my fortunes in trade and other things began to pick up and I set off on a journey to a new city. All the people there were new to me. I knew then that they didn't deserve my blighted past, they didn't deserve to be at the brunt of my voiceless rage. I changed my lifestyle, I changed the way I was; I became more responsible and soon was employed by the King.
Now, I'm your minister, and your King's right-hand man. I've stood by you all, protecting you, saving you, nourishing you, pushing you to seek your dreams without fearing any foe. Now, this woman here is that lover I spoke of, and now, she tells you all to sacrifice me as ransom so she can get back her lover from those who've captured him.
He was a man of courage she said, and now, as fate would have it, the blade at his throat pierces at my will. Now, I ask you to tell me if I still will have your mercy and be allowed to decide for myself... whether I choose to mend my heart and leave it broken for your sake. Having known you good men and women for so long, I will take the liberty to assume a just answer.
Now, woman, I ask you: I was once a man who cared for justice, and that was the man you hated; I was once a man who cared for love, and that was the man you loved. Who do you want me to be now? Do you want me to be the one you hated so you can feel fine about leaving me? Or do you want me to be the man you loved so he can save your lover?
Thursday, 17 February 2011
The Lonely Perfectionist
A few months before, I had a plot simmering in my head about a lonely perfectionist. I let it go over time for lack of interest – the way I naturally developed the storyline didn’t go well with the other half of me, the “me” that wanted to concentrate more on the reaches of insanity and what insanity itself desired.
The Lonely Perfectionist
He was a lonely man, sitting alone in his dark room for hours on end, and when he emerged, rarely though that was, he would conjure great stories about himself, his brave conquests. The lonely perfectionist was an intelligent man, and into these stories he would throw in specks of his humiliations, his defeats, just to provide the tale with a sense of balance and some plausibility, as such. One fine day, when his only son comes visiting, the lonely perfectionist wishes not to open his long shut door. When the incessant knocks becomes unbearable, he leaves his chair and pulls the door open with an inexorable irascibility.
As the hinges creak against the damp mass of wood, so also does his past. A multitude of memories flash past his eyes, each more vague than its predecessor, and the lonely perfectionist only ignores them. He deigns them as the foolish who chase after what was done. He left his wife to fend for herself on the lonely and cold streets of Kzar (a fictitious town), he left his toddler son to beg; he thought, more so than wished, that he was leaving his past to die. And now, it had raised its serpentine head once more, rearing up against his bosom. He looks up at his son, for he is tall, handsome, and rich by the merit of his garb. As the old man opens his mouth to shoo the stranger back into the darkness whence he seemed to have emerged, the son silences him with a casual wave. They only exchange a stern stare, each delving into the other’s eyes with an immense hatred.
The rich, finally, hands the poor a purse of leather, albeit leaving him to claim it from near his feet, and departs. The old man is intrigued. “What scourge from the dead is this?”, he wonders; he picks it up, pushes the door back into its termite-ridden nightmare, and gets back to his study.
The room of the lonely perfectionist is small, housing only a chair, a table and no bed. Clothes lay strewn on the floor. When he moved into Alam, he had purchased this small room and the house on the other side of the wall. He had further permitted a group of young boys to move in, and he only asked of them to feed him night and day by pushing a small plate of rice and chicken through a crack at the bottom of the wall, and some oil and wick whenever he tapped his stick thrice. He cared not for the rent, he cared not for the tantrums they seemed to throw. He was a lonely old man, and he only wished to stay that way.
Years passed, and the arrangement saw itself fit to continue unperturbed. None had seen the old man come out into the daylight. He always was inside, poring over great volumes that he had carried with him from Kzar. What evil or demise these tomes spoke of, no living soul would ever know. The truth was, they were empty with not a single sentence or line or word, not a single tale or fable or moral, not a single hero or king or kingdom. The lonely perfectionist was a creator and needed for himself only a canvas; unto a world of madness he may have been consigned, but he created legends every day.
What he always did and would continue to do for quite some time to come, however, was keep the pages of these books to his ears, and they would speak to him the epics of the past. They don’t, nor do I, know whence these books come from. In fact, they, nor I, knew not whether they were such magical books, ones written by sorcerers and necromancers past. All he would do is sit and listen to them, and whenever he completed a book, he would stand up and dance for days together, stomping and pounding his careworn feet on the floorboards. He would sing, screeching and howling into the night. None knew which memory he was reliving, whose birth he was proclaiming. And then, all of a sudden, even as immediately as God’s wrath descended upon Sodom and Gomorrah, he would quieten. Not a sound would emerge until the lonely perfectionist had completed another tome, another past.
When he finally opened the purse, he discovered within it a hundred glittering coins of pure gold! Not a penny more, not a penny less, but a hundred! The old man knew not what to do with them. What a sensible man does with such treasure – thus was his thought. As he pondered, the few fragments of the past that had managed to survive, the love he was bestowed with by his wife and son from the days older than his discovery, return like the horsemen of the Apocalypse: perhaps his only son had come all this way to gift him another story!
And so, pushing away the faithful books into a pile, and the pile into a darker corner, the old man doused the lights. And then, he slowly leaned his head in toward the coins now laid strewn on the table. One by one, he pushes them to the centre, and yearns for them to begin to speak! Days pass, the morsels are neglected. The tenants are concerned, their plates have not been returned. The neighbours are angry, there is a stench emanating from the room. But the old man ignores them all, until finally, he begins to believe the coins are mute. The coins are mute! Thumping his fist angrily on the table, he begins to shout. “Speak, ye worthless!” and receives only silent humility in return.
“How can you not speak?! You even have the face some other man embossed on yours, are you not ashamed?! You have lost your identity, you have been unmasked, and you have no sorrow to put forth, no regret?! What are you?! Who beat you into this torment?! I have been magnanimous before, and I will be once more now, all for you! - so forth.
He can't stand the silence of the coins, bangs his head against the table. Finally, he is dead.
Thus passed the lonely perfectionist.
I know I've been working towards writing simpler over the last few months, but the story just seemed to warrant it. Like I was venerating von Goethe.
So, that’s how my story went. It was inspired by a dream I had: I was sitting in a dark room, banging my head (don’t ask me why) against a wooden table upon which was a lonely gold coin. Now, this was the problem: I knew I wanted to base the story on insanity – insanity would be my protagonist – and the old man, the antagonist. However, I kept walking into a cul de sac when I attempted to depict such madness, which also served as a clear reminder that I’m quite far from being a good writer. IMO, the good writer differs from the not-so-good writer not because he has a better imagination but because he has better ways of putting it down.
The Lonely Perfectionist
He was a lonely man, sitting alone in his dark room for hours on end, and when he emerged, rarely though that was, he would conjure great stories about himself, his brave conquests. The lonely perfectionist was an intelligent man, and into these stories he would throw in specks of his humiliations, his defeats, just to provide the tale with a sense of balance and some plausibility, as such. One fine day, when his only son comes visiting, the lonely perfectionist wishes not to open his long shut door. When the incessant knocks becomes unbearable, he leaves his chair and pulls the door open with an inexorable irascibility.
As the hinges creak against the damp mass of wood, so also does his past. A multitude of memories flash past his eyes, each more vague than its predecessor, and the lonely perfectionist only ignores them. He deigns them as the foolish who chase after what was done. He left his wife to fend for herself on the lonely and cold streets of Kzar (a fictitious town), he left his toddler son to beg; he thought, more so than wished, that he was leaving his past to die. And now, it had raised its serpentine head once more, rearing up against his bosom. He looks up at his son, for he is tall, handsome, and rich by the merit of his garb. As the old man opens his mouth to shoo the stranger back into the darkness whence he seemed to have emerged, the son silences him with a casual wave. They only exchange a stern stare, each delving into the other’s eyes with an immense hatred.
The rich, finally, hands the poor a purse of leather, albeit leaving him to claim it from near his feet, and departs. The old man is intrigued. “What scourge from the dead is this?”, he wonders; he picks it up, pushes the door back into its termite-ridden nightmare, and gets back to his study.
The room of the lonely perfectionist is small, housing only a chair, a table and no bed. Clothes lay strewn on the floor. When he moved into Alam, he had purchased this small room and the house on the other side of the wall. He had further permitted a group of young boys to move in, and he only asked of them to feed him night and day by pushing a small plate of rice and chicken through a crack at the bottom of the wall, and some oil and wick whenever he tapped his stick thrice. He cared not for the rent, he cared not for the tantrums they seemed to throw. He was a lonely old man, and he only wished to stay that way.
Years passed, and the arrangement saw itself fit to continue unperturbed. None had seen the old man come out into the daylight. He always was inside, poring over great volumes that he had carried with him from Kzar. What evil or demise these tomes spoke of, no living soul would ever know. The truth was, they were empty with not a single sentence or line or word, not a single tale or fable or moral, not a single hero or king or kingdom. The lonely perfectionist was a creator and needed for himself only a canvas; unto a world of madness he may have been consigned, but he created legends every day.
What he always did and would continue to do for quite some time to come, however, was keep the pages of these books to his ears, and they would speak to him the epics of the past. They don’t, nor do I, know whence these books come from. In fact, they, nor I, knew not whether they were such magical books, ones written by sorcerers and necromancers past. All he would do is sit and listen to them, and whenever he completed a book, he would stand up and dance for days together, stomping and pounding his careworn feet on the floorboards. He would sing, screeching and howling into the night. None knew which memory he was reliving, whose birth he was proclaiming. And then, all of a sudden, even as immediately as God’s wrath descended upon Sodom and Gomorrah, he would quieten. Not a sound would emerge until the lonely perfectionist had completed another tome, another past.
When he finally opened the purse, he discovered within it a hundred glittering coins of pure gold! Not a penny more, not a penny less, but a hundred! The old man knew not what to do with them. What a sensible man does with such treasure – thus was his thought. As he pondered, the few fragments of the past that had managed to survive, the love he was bestowed with by his wife and son from the days older than his discovery, return like the horsemen of the Apocalypse: perhaps his only son had come all this way to gift him another story!
And so, pushing away the faithful books into a pile, and the pile into a darker corner, the old man doused the lights. And then, he slowly leaned his head in toward the coins now laid strewn on the table. One by one, he pushes them to the centre, and yearns for them to begin to speak! Days pass, the morsels are neglected. The tenants are concerned, their plates have not been returned. The neighbours are angry, there is a stench emanating from the room. But the old man ignores them all, until finally, he begins to believe the coins are mute. The coins are mute! Thumping his fist angrily on the table, he begins to shout. “Speak, ye worthless!” and receives only silent humility in return.
“How can you not speak?! You even have the face some other man embossed on yours, are you not ashamed?! You have lost your identity, you have been unmasked, and you have no sorrow to put forth, no regret?! What are you?! Who beat you into this torment?! I have been magnanimous before, and I will be once more now, all for you! - so forth.
He can't stand the silence of the coins, bangs his head against the table. Finally, he is dead.
Thus passed the lonely perfectionist.
~
I know I've been working towards writing simpler over the last few months, but the story just seemed to warrant it. Like I was venerating von Goethe.
So, that’s how my story went. It was inspired by a dream I had: I was sitting in a dark room, banging my head (don’t ask me why) against a wooden table upon which was a lonely gold coin. Now, this was the problem: I knew I wanted to base the story on insanity – insanity would be my protagonist – and the old man, the antagonist. However, I kept walking into a cul de sac when I attempted to depict such madness, which also served as a clear reminder that I’m quite far from being a good writer. IMO, the good writer differs from the not-so-good writer not because he has a better imagination but because he has better ways of putting it down.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
A Story Through Ten Images
- An old draft, warm with all the years of our acquaintance, edged conveniently off the table. Outside, the world was up to something, it was always up to something, but I never bothered. It was up to no good anyway. Such evenings always made me smile, not in the cocky way some old fart smiles when his midlife crises hits him in the face, but in the cocky way an old soldier is allowed to feel, is entitled to feel. Those were the days... when the world was up to worse.
[caption id="attachment_146" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Of all the many journeys I was a part of, the Kohrin Expedition comes to mind now - not always, it's too special to be wondering about on any evening except this one. The Kohrin were an ancient people who civilized slowly, deliberately, accruing for themselves a foundation for their future so strong, so unshakeable, that they automatically threatened anyone they dealt with, whether by accident or by measure. In the fourth year of the twelfth solar cycle, a secret expedition was sent forth by an affluent Kohrini thug named Brull; I was conscripted along with four other pilots to deliver resources to rebel factions coming together to topple the ruling council of ministers. Brull wanted the crown for himself, the kingdom for his house."]
[/caption][caption id="attachment_149" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="A 17-hour journey later, I was at SR-71 to meet with the faction titled Bazlac. To cut a long story short, they weren't there. The place was desolate, the wooden struts had been blasted off with undue force, pocks littered the face of the earth. Some of the spots were still smoldering and a wet track led away from them, deep in the squelch, a heavy vehicle of some kind had been here. Keeping the shuttle low, I followed it north for as long as it lasted. Then, in the distance..."]
[/caption][caption id="attachment_148" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="A Citadel of Light, unmistakable from this distance, with its rounded ramparts and domed crowns, with the blue flames of necromancy climbing into the sky out of the blast-capillaries, hot as Hell, cold as Hell, webs of some strange silken cord hanging in strands from its facade. The mound of land on which it stood seemed still loose, which meant it was new, a "fresh" acquisition. The Drasil were cannibals, morally decadent spawn detested by the kinds of Brull even. The Bazlac were done for, I knew, but what the Drasil were doing so far outfield I didn't, so I decided to pay them a visit. A secret one."]
[/caption][caption id="attachment_151" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="The Drasil were very religious, which meant taking to the skies was equal to defying the airspace of the "Gods", so getting to the other side was easy. Perching atop a hill shrouded in mist, I found a vantage point after cloaking the shuttle, took my post and waited. Beneath, a sea of green light, within which boats were being scuttled. This was strange, there was no enemy army in sight, no threat, no chance of one either as a great army encircling the camp came to be seen under the dim light. Why were the boats being scuttled? I heard a noise behind me, and turning to look, saw it was a dunkke."]
[/caption][caption id="attachment_152" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="A dunkke was a proselyte with the Drasil camp whose arms and legs had been cut off and substituted with electromechanical limbs that enhanced speed. They argued that, over the years, this left the brain to focus more on other activities, such as strategizing or backstabbing. Two red bulbs glowed bright on the bosom of this woman, which meant she had been deactivated. Her activation signals would gradually die out, leaving her immobile and starving to death. I walked up to the figure, dragged her to near the craft, and fed her some energy from the engines. She was obviously a traitor to the Drasilhani cause."]
[/caption][caption id="attachment_153" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="The first words out of her mouth and I prepared to disconnect her, but her arms were exceptionally strong. She was some kind of a warrior, absorbed into the cult through blackmail and torture, to dive beneath the seas and awaken the Purge. Brull had not sought to bring down Kohrin, at least at first, but instead sought to repel the Drasil. The Bazlac were planning to awaken the Purge themselves to quench the fire of the Kohrin and the Drasil had intervened. But why? The Drasil needed life to kill, fertility to blight."]
[/caption][caption id="attachment_154" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="The Purge was an antediluvian cabal buried midway between the outer crust and inner mantle of three planets in the entire galaxy, conceived and gestated since time immemorial by some Kohrin overlord, commanded to rise and be born as a machine with unimaginable power, with the sole purpose of melting and consuming whole planets within days. The one in SR-71 was named Red Hand. The three Purges were the ultimate weapons of the Kohrin, unstoppable, reckless in their hunger for metal and stone. Now, I understood the answer: the Kohrin had allied with the Drasil to eliminate fringe rebels, but the Drasil had grabbed the chance to reactivate the three Hands of Oblivion... against the Kohrin."]
[/caption][caption id="attachment_155" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="This here's the construction site behind my home. They're building some sort of an office, although for what I don't know. My planet's exactly one parsec away from SR-71, which means it will be another six years before Red Hand gets here. They don't know yet, or they'd be over their sorrow already and holding some sort of celebration, calling for world peace and brotherhood, what melodrama! I can't stand that. If they let me be, I'd let them be. That looks impossible all the time. Cancer's going to take me in another four months, so I figured, hey! Let's not tell them anything. Keep the mystery alive, that sorta thing, get me? After all, anything's possible!"]
[/caption][caption id="attachment_157" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Anything at all."]
[/caption]
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