Why, oh why, Philogelos, I hear you cry, do you think that? What could possibly make you any more batty than you already are? How could you downscale the charts of insanity any more than you have already? What makes you think you have any sanity left to lose?
The answer to all these questions (bar the last one) is the resolution I have made for myself: I am going to read Robert Jordan's 'Wheel of Time'.
All twenty-one bricks of it.
With prequels.
And background.
It doesn't matter, though, because it annoys Gundrea, and that is reason enough for me. At the time of speaking, I have devoted a week of my life to chewing through the prequel, 'New Spring', and the first three volumes.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Robert_Jordan.jpg
This guy is Robert Jordan. He did lots of mad stuff but, most importantly, he wrote the Wheel of Time (or the first twelve volumes, anyway). He said in the little thing they have in the back of the book that he 'intends to keep writing until they nail his coffin shut'.
He did, God love him.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:BrandonSandersonX.png
And this smarmy git is Branderson Sandon, or whatever his name is. I have not yet had the opportunity to peruse his additions to the seemingly unkillable Wheel of Time, so I look forward to Book Thirteen. Will he live up to expectations, or will he flounder and fail with the 'unlucky thirteen'? Find out my opinion some time in the distant future, if by some miracle I stick to this insane resolution.
Now we have the background out of the way, I intend to cast an eye on the first book in the series: 'The Eye of the World'. No professional book critic am I - far from it - and my opinion is further biased by the special place 'The Eye of the World' holds in the dusty, ill-maintained attic that serves me as a heart. I can, in fact, remember the very day when my mother presented it to me...
I read this repeatedly as a child, and no wonder. Jordan, a history buff, crafted the history of his world magnificently, a failing I noticed in (say) Moorcock's 'Elric'. He also took a leap into the abyss by completely excluding any traditional fantasy races - the only recognisable element being the dragon, and even that is just a picture on paper. His characters are good - not Shakespearean by any stretch of the imagination, but very good (I keep forgetting whose eyes I'm reading through, particularly later in the series, but that's just 'cause of the vast profusity of characters). The plot (I'm sure you all know it off by heart by now) is good enough - not exactly a page-turner, and not heavy on twists, certainly not this early in the colossal saga, but I was never bored. As ever, Mr. Jordan's strength is his fantastic background and his equally brilliant evocation of it - he keeps pulling stories, festivals, artefacts, monsters, and factoids out of a profusity of sleeves. I could see every inch of the Ways, see the walls of Caemlyn, so on and so forth. I enjoyed reading it as much this time as I did the time before, and the time before that, and the time before that...
Next: 'The Great Hunt'. In the meantime, the Great Hunt for the 'Great Hunt', as I seem to have misplaced both my copies. Oh dear.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
First Contact
Set chronologically some time after the events of "Interval's End", when Cyrus is dead.
Inquestor Slithiz of the Argubadian Faunocracy ruffled her wings, blinked her six eyes, shuffled her suctopeds, brushed her numerous pets away, and made popping noises with her proboscis, all through a surfeit of nervousness. Every eye in the room – which, when a room was filled with Argubadines, was very very many indeed – was riveted on the matterthrower, four-columned and ecologically pleasing, in the centre of the leafy room.
Inquestor Slithiz closed her many eyes and remembered how this bloody affair had started. It had had the most ignominious of beginnings, truly – some little boy of the Khanati, one of the Arbugadine's allied spacefaring races, on some benighted colony in a region of space characterised by Eks banditry, had, being an insufferable genius, built himself a little radio – as if that wouldn't bring the aforementioned Eks raiders down on his planet. Not only that, but this radio had the capability to pick up signals from space – unknown space, actually, making this child just about one of the most intelligent Khanati ever to have lived.
Probably strangest of all, the radio had begun picking up signals.
“Inquestor Slithiz!” An eager young Arbugadine by the name of Dermicbowl prodded her with her proboscis – all Arbugadines were female. “Inquestor Slithiz!” Slithiz flapped her pallid wings, bowling over another Arbugadine, and turned to face Dermicbowl.
“What, Dermicbowl, is it you could desire at such an inopportune time?”
“The Faunocratine desires a situational report, Inquestor.”
“Exactly the bloody same as five minutes ago!” Slithiz blew bubbles through her proboscis again. How had she ended up with this bloody assignment?
Oh yes. The Khanati had asked the Argubadines – as their newest ally, still fresh from the egg of their world – to handle this first-contact situation. The Faunocrat, of course, back on Bthyryz Amorgana, had consulted the animalcular oracles and of course, the oracles had interpreted, they should accept! This was a grea big step in the cultural development of the Argubadine Faunocracy, blah le blah le blah le blah. And Inquestor Slithiz, previously Inferior Pen-Pusher Slithiz in the unforgiving Morcunian Arbugadine language she spoke, had been pulled from a nice cosy job and flung halfway across an admittedly very tiny space empire to shepherd some new species into space and to hoover them into the Khanati web of intrigue they called an alliance.
The radio – well, the Arbugadine equivalent of a radio - buzzed, bringing Slithiz back from her vaguely furious daydream. A harsh, barking voice, unlike the natural trills and pops that constituted most of the Argubadine languages, came through, spitting some barbaric foreign tongue through its flower speakers. Those messages had started coming in, as soon as they'd started orbiting this cesspit of a planet three days ago. The translators had been doing their best on translating the language, but somehow, Slithiz doubted that the alien's enigmatic words really meant “Bob's hot dog doing dance banana banana going down.” Eventually, in frustration, she had ordered the ship to grow a matterthrower and send it down in an unwomanned (as it were) capsule. Like all the technology of the nature-loving Arbugadines, they had literally grown the matterthrower. It hadn't always been like that, of course: but when they discovered genetic engineering, they couldn't resist using it to make more natural machines. The matterthrower, in essence, did exactly what it said: it flung matter through Lodgespace, whatever that was (Slithiz wasn't properly sure herself) and popped it down on another matterthrower. They had, of course, no guarantee that the aliens could even conceptualise technology as advanced as a matterthrower, but no less than three minutes and thirty seven seconds ago, they had received a message which the translators deemed to be “Bob's hot dog used matterthrower laundry possible soon.”
This was why Slithiz was standing on the wooden floor of her wooden spaceship, watching this bloody matterthrower, waiting patiently for nothing to happen.
She was disappointed.
A flicker – no more – graced their end of the matterthrower. Slithiz failed to show any emotion, but underneath, she was astounded: these aliens could use a matterthrower.
Maybe they could move on to numbers next.
A stronger flicker came, then repeated itself, growing slowly into a continuous-ish buzz of light and sound as the Lodgespace route between the two matterthrowers was established. The whole room shushed as one, a chorus of trills and pops silencing suddenly. Even the Arbugadines' pets shut themselves up. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a knife.
Then the alien boot took its first step into space.
A figure, robed in green trimmed with red and tall – at least half again as tall and broad as any of the Arbugadines – stepped through.
“Greetings.” it smiled, the translators working furiously. “I am Gunnarus Asmodaeus of Ostmark, in Jotunheim, and I come on behalf of the Akarean Empire.”
Inquestor Slithiz of the Argubadian Faunocracy ruffled her wings, blinked her six eyes, shuffled her suctopeds, brushed her numerous pets away, and made popping noises with her proboscis, all through a surfeit of nervousness. Every eye in the room – which, when a room was filled with Argubadines, was very very many indeed – was riveted on the matterthrower, four-columned and ecologically pleasing, in the centre of the leafy room.
Inquestor Slithiz closed her many eyes and remembered how this bloody affair had started. It had had the most ignominious of beginnings, truly – some little boy of the Khanati, one of the Arbugadine's allied spacefaring races, on some benighted colony in a region of space characterised by Eks banditry, had, being an insufferable genius, built himself a little radio – as if that wouldn't bring the aforementioned Eks raiders down on his planet. Not only that, but this radio had the capability to pick up signals from space – unknown space, actually, making this child just about one of the most intelligent Khanati ever to have lived.
Probably strangest of all, the radio had begun picking up signals.
“Inquestor Slithiz!” An eager young Arbugadine by the name of Dermicbowl prodded her with her proboscis – all Arbugadines were female. “Inquestor Slithiz!” Slithiz flapped her pallid wings, bowling over another Arbugadine, and turned to face Dermicbowl.
“What, Dermicbowl, is it you could desire at such an inopportune time?”
“The Faunocratine desires a situational report, Inquestor.”
“Exactly the bloody same as five minutes ago!” Slithiz blew bubbles through her proboscis again. How had she ended up with this bloody assignment?
Oh yes. The Khanati had asked the Argubadines – as their newest ally, still fresh from the egg of their world – to handle this first-contact situation. The Faunocrat, of course, back on Bthyryz Amorgana, had consulted the animalcular oracles and of course, the oracles had interpreted, they should accept! This was a grea big step in the cultural development of the Argubadine Faunocracy, blah le blah le blah le blah. And Inquestor Slithiz, previously Inferior Pen-Pusher Slithiz in the unforgiving Morcunian Arbugadine language she spoke, had been pulled from a nice cosy job and flung halfway across an admittedly very tiny space empire to shepherd some new species into space and to hoover them into the Khanati web of intrigue they called an alliance.
The radio – well, the Arbugadine equivalent of a radio - buzzed, bringing Slithiz back from her vaguely furious daydream. A harsh, barking voice, unlike the natural trills and pops that constituted most of the Argubadine languages, came through, spitting some barbaric foreign tongue through its flower speakers. Those messages had started coming in, as soon as they'd started orbiting this cesspit of a planet three days ago. The translators had been doing their best on translating the language, but somehow, Slithiz doubted that the alien's enigmatic words really meant “Bob's hot dog doing dance banana banana going down.” Eventually, in frustration, she had ordered the ship to grow a matterthrower and send it down in an unwomanned (as it were) capsule. Like all the technology of the nature-loving Arbugadines, they had literally grown the matterthrower. It hadn't always been like that, of course: but when they discovered genetic engineering, they couldn't resist using it to make more natural machines. The matterthrower, in essence, did exactly what it said: it flung matter through Lodgespace, whatever that was (Slithiz wasn't properly sure herself) and popped it down on another matterthrower. They had, of course, no guarantee that the aliens could even conceptualise technology as advanced as a matterthrower, but no less than three minutes and thirty seven seconds ago, they had received a message which the translators deemed to be “Bob's hot dog used matterthrower laundry possible soon.”
This was why Slithiz was standing on the wooden floor of her wooden spaceship, watching this bloody matterthrower, waiting patiently for nothing to happen.
She was disappointed.
A flicker – no more – graced their end of the matterthrower. Slithiz failed to show any emotion, but underneath, she was astounded: these aliens could use a matterthrower.
Maybe they could move on to numbers next.
A stronger flicker came, then repeated itself, growing slowly into a continuous-ish buzz of light and sound as the Lodgespace route between the two matterthrowers was established. The whole room shushed as one, a chorus of trills and pops silencing suddenly. Even the Arbugadines' pets shut themselves up. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a knife.
Then the alien boot took its first step into space.
A figure, robed in green trimmed with red and tall – at least half again as tall and broad as any of the Arbugadines – stepped through.
“Greetings.” it smiled, the translators working furiously. “I am Gunnarus Asmodaeus of Ostmark, in Jotunheim, and I come on behalf of the Akarean Empire.”
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Stupid Jeeps
As we were driving home from school today, my brother asked a question of my father.
“Dad,” says he, “why do some people like to drive around in, like, big seven-and-nine seater jeeps and things?” My dad thought about this for a moment.
“Image.” he answered at last, almost mournfully. “They like to do it because they think it's 'cool'.” That is, I believe, characteristic of his entire mentality. My dad doesn't care what the world thinks about him. He kept bull's eyes in the fridge, sets his lab on fire periodically, and went through a phase where he didn't wash himself. The world can go screw itself, says he: image is not important.
And there is the crux of it. 'Image is not important.' Is it? Allow me to furnish us with another example. I happen to be in the possession of a rabbit, who lives in a small box in the back garden. I also love the goddamn furry white bundle of love to bits. Why? Well, let's take a look at this empirically. (Incidentally, if anyone could actually define 'empirically', I would be very grateful to them if they posted it in a comment. I suspect I have misused it. Anyway...)
Rabbits and humans have locked... er... ears, so's to speak, for generations: we have an built-in animosity towards each other. Rabbits, for their part, breed like... well... like rabbits, and fuel this growth on human crops, to the point where they have to build, for example, a rabbit-proof fence across half of Australia. In return for this, humans consider rabbits to be irritating pests and, occasionally, a delicious dinner.
Add to this the costs of keeping a pet. The aforementioned small wooden box is, in fact, a sizeable and well-appointed hutch which my father and I built with the collective sweat of our brows (metaphorically speaking). She goes through carrots like nothing you've ever seen and the rabbit food is hardly better. Add to that her complete and utter lack of hygiene which, apart from the revolting job of clearing out the hutch after her daily, costs us a newspaper, a handful of straw and scented sawdust every day.
And, as if that wasn't enough, this 'furry white bundle of love' is a spoilt bitch. I have more bites than an apple, my mother won't touch her for fear of her, she periodically urinates on my trousers (not a pleasant experience, believe me) and her ladyship will, when being held, only accept chocolate to eat. She particularly likes Aero bars.
So then, empirically (sic?) speaking, getting a rabbit was a very foolish decision and one I was guaranteed to regret within a very very short space of time. Yet I love her to bits. Why? One answer: image. Shave a bunny wabbit and no-one wants it any more. Ever wonder why the plain brown one always gets left behind in the shop? It has all to do with image.
And the same applies to human beings, which is what I was getting at if I've left you behind by this point. It has been scientifically proven that women especially judge people on their first sighting. It's wrong: unquestionably so. Yet that is how people are: they judge people not by their performance after a year's work or whatever, but by image. That's why you dress smartly going to a job interview or on a first date. If you don't look snazzy, no one'll want you, and trust me, in the world of capitalism, no-one wants to be the plain brown bunny left behind in the shop.
“Dad,” says he, “why do some people like to drive around in, like, big seven-and-nine seater jeeps and things?” My dad thought about this for a moment.
“Image.” he answered at last, almost mournfully. “They like to do it because they think it's 'cool'.” That is, I believe, characteristic of his entire mentality. My dad doesn't care what the world thinks about him. He kept bull's eyes in the fridge, sets his lab on fire periodically, and went through a phase where he didn't wash himself. The world can go screw itself, says he: image is not important.
And there is the crux of it. 'Image is not important.' Is it? Allow me to furnish us with another example. I happen to be in the possession of a rabbit, who lives in a small box in the back garden. I also love the goddamn furry white bundle of love to bits. Why? Well, let's take a look at this empirically. (Incidentally, if anyone could actually define 'empirically', I would be very grateful to them if they posted it in a comment. I suspect I have misused it. Anyway...)
Rabbits and humans have locked... er... ears, so's to speak, for generations: we have an built-in animosity towards each other. Rabbits, for their part, breed like... well... like rabbits, and fuel this growth on human crops, to the point where they have to build, for example, a rabbit-proof fence across half of Australia. In return for this, humans consider rabbits to be irritating pests and, occasionally, a delicious dinner.
Add to this the costs of keeping a pet. The aforementioned small wooden box is, in fact, a sizeable and well-appointed hutch which my father and I built with the collective sweat of our brows (metaphorically speaking). She goes through carrots like nothing you've ever seen and the rabbit food is hardly better. Add to that her complete and utter lack of hygiene which, apart from the revolting job of clearing out the hutch after her daily, costs us a newspaper, a handful of straw and scented sawdust every day.
And, as if that wasn't enough, this 'furry white bundle of love' is a spoilt bitch. I have more bites than an apple, my mother won't touch her for fear of her, she periodically urinates on my trousers (not a pleasant experience, believe me) and her ladyship will, when being held, only accept chocolate to eat. She particularly likes Aero bars.
So then, empirically (sic?) speaking, getting a rabbit was a very foolish decision and one I was guaranteed to regret within a very very short space of time. Yet I love her to bits. Why? One answer: image. Shave a bunny wabbit and no-one wants it any more. Ever wonder why the plain brown one always gets left behind in the shop? It has all to do with image.
And the same applies to human beings, which is what I was getting at if I've left you behind by this point. It has been scientifically proven that women especially judge people on their first sighting. It's wrong: unquestionably so. Yet that is how people are: they judge people not by their performance after a year's work or whatever, but by image. That's why you dress smartly going to a job interview or on a first date. If you don't look snazzy, no one'll want you, and trust me, in the world of capitalism, no-one wants to be the plain brown bunny left behind in the shop.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
Introducing...
...Cyrus' one and only rival for the title of protagonist, Janus Ardashir. Only very very loosely based on the character of Janus that I had not really bothered to come up with for that abortive RPG-type thing.
Janus' bow moved elegantly and measuredly over the violin's strings, providing a gorgeous, exuberant soundtrack to the sharply contrasting buildings of Caragean that towered, sooty and rickety, over the narrow cobbled streets. Few people, save the odd patrolling Lanciar, scampering street urchin, or homeward-bound vendor, passed to make his busking worthwhile. Nonetheless, he was determined to squeeze every penny out of it he could.
He knew, if he didn't find somewhere to stay, that he'd die of some sickness soon.
However, at this stage of the evening, with the moon peeking over the pocked roofs and every self-respecting citizen gone to bed, Janus reasoned that, at this time, it'd be a good time to start looking for a dry spot to curl up for the night. He packed up his violin, his only really valuable possession, and looked around for a suitable alleyway. His eyes alighted on a small shop specialising in Farhighter foods and perked up – the heat off its ovens should keep him warm for the night.
It was a long way for a rich merchant's idle third son to fall.
But, Janus reflected bitterly, as he walked past the yellow square of light that was the Farhighter restaurant's door, he had the rich merchant's oldest son to thank for that.
As Janus headed for the alleyway, wrapped up in his vengeful thoughts, another pair of eyes fastened onto him. Gregory's avaricious, bloodshot eyes eyed the rich violin case and the jangling purse of small change the busker brought with him and, unconsciously, his huge ham-fists clenched and unclenched greedily. A further evaluation of the busker himself was more comforting still: beneath the carefully frayed red robe, the busker was merely a small, nondescript-looking man of average Lain height, complexion, and build. In fact, if he wanted to, he could probably blend into the crowds of Caragean effortlessly if he wanted to.
There were, however, no crowds at this time of night, and no-one to hear the unfortunate little man scream.
Janus pushed his way into the Farhighter restaurant, where an enormously fat, incredibly bored-looking Farhighter woman leaned on a crummy bar, wattle-draped face rested on the bubble of lard that had probably begun life as a hand. Even looking her would have put Janus off of his food, back when he had the money to afford such luxuries.
“Vot you vont?” she asked him in heavily accented Kamarean. Janus cast a glance at the stereotypically misspelt menu tacked onto the roof above the bar, then at the array of foodstuffs assembled beneath the dirty glass comprising the bar. Both looked equally unappetising.
“Err... Two Akarean sausages and a plate of chips, please.” That said, Janus sat down at one of the few tables the restaurant offered and looked around, depressedly, at the restaurant. Its most salient feature was its yellowness: yellow walls, yellow-tiled floor, yellow grime on the windows. Even the supposedly-reflective steel of the tables and chairs showed the yellow of the surrounding room, as if they had spent so long in the restaurant's overwhelming yellowness that they had absorbed it into them.
“Enjoy meal.” The fat woman set a plate of food in front of him, pocketed the change he put on the table, and wandered off. Idly, Janus wondered how the plate had managed to escape her gravity well. The Akarean sausage was dreadful – but then, that was the meaning of Akarean sausage. It came being an uncultured and impoverished people – it was comprised whatever you could get your hands on (not necessarily meat, either) rolled into a rough cylinder, then stuck on a hot thing until it didn't fall apart when you picked it up. Its one virtue was its invariable cheapness.
Janus sincerely hoped the green was the inventive addition of a cabbage leaf.
Two probably meatless conglomerates and a plate of greasy cardboard later, Janus was fortified against the night. He pushed the door into the alley open and stepped out into the chilling Caragean night, dreading the comfortless night spent on the cobbles.
“How are you.” a gravelly voice growled into his ear.
Something hit the side of his head and as he fell, he vaguely registered the sound of the restaurant door slamming shut, cutting off all possibility of help – not as if the fat Farhighter woman would have been much help. Where's a Lanciar when you need one? he thought groggily.
Gregory and his two henchmen chuckled moronically to themselves as they observed the prostrate musician, sprawled helplessly on the ground. Gregory had always thought that to “jump out of your skin” was a figure of speech, but Janus had jumped so high it had nearly looked like there were two of him. There was, however, most definitely one of him, and that scrambling away from the muggers at top speed.
“Stop!” Gregory growled, pointing a meaty finger at a spot on the ground. Obediently, Janus froze, babbling almost incoherently.
“Please... take anything you want. Just leave my violin alone...”
“Money. Throw it there.” A pathetically empty wallet sailed out of the dark and settled with a jangle on the stones. “And the violin.”
“No – not the violin!”
“Give me the violin!” Gregory started towards the prostrate musician, and tripped into hell.
The thug's face impacted hot, scorched, crumbling earth, leaving a face-shaped imprint in it. What the hell? He rolled over – and made a little whimpering sound as he saw the red, striated sky laced with bands of brooding cloud and lashed by bolts of lightning, which stretched endlessly until finally it hit the edge of the vast black plain he was lying on. The air itself burned, a sulphurous concoction that seared Gregory's throat on the way down. There was nothing in sight save the carbonised acres of earth and the unsettled sky.
Janus stepped out of the air.
“Wha – how – eh - ”
“Do shut up. I neither want nor need your feeble-minded thoughts.” Janus dismissed his assailant's babblings almost nonchalantly, examining the strange place. “I have to say, not even I'm quite sure where we are. I don't think I've been here before. As for how, you failed to notice the magical trap I set around the sack of gold and you... haha... can-tripped into a whole new world.” The mage's gaze turned back to his terrified opponent, prostrate in the dirt.
“Nonetheless! I'm sure you'll do well here... though there's nothing to build a house with, and no food, and no-one to talk to – not even the flesh-rending, blood-drinking, murderous demon-type people you usually find in these type of places. You should starve to death in about a month.”
“Eh... but I don't deserve this! I have a wife...”
“That you beat mercilessly every time you go home. She will be glad now you're gone. Anyway, I didn't deserve to have my money and violin pilfered by you and your cronies, but that never stopped you, did it. Give you something to think about, at least, when while you're rotting away up here. Now! I really must be going, though comparative to here, literally no time has passed back in Elleria. Enjoy your stay!”
Janus winked cheerily, flashed a huge grin, and left Gregory to a fate worse than death.
* * *
He flashed back into the real world, and time resumed uninterrupted.
“Boss?”
“What'd you do to him, you rat?” Janus decided to toy with these buffoons a little more.
“Nothing – honest! I didn't do anything!”
“He's right, Uji. He's just an idiot.” The other man diverted his attention for just a second, which was all Janus needed. Instantly, he initiated the formula required to take possession of another's mind. Rows of magical symbols scrolled in front of his eyes, arcane glyphs scribing themselves into existence at the edges of his consciousness and rushing across his field of vision to vanish, well-heeded, at the other edge of his vision.
You summoned me.
“Kba'j'righrt'ashka'ghur'yurt'bana'madarius? Is that you?” Janus said inside his own head.
I told you... just call me Kba. The spirit's projected thoughts conveyed a faint sense of irritation and Janus smiled delightedly. He liked nothing better than winding his personal genie up - save making some thug pay for his idiocy. What may I do for you?
“Find me that man's mind.”
Consider it done.
No sooner than Uji had registered his companion's words than the man suddenly... thrashed, was the best word for it. Almost as if he had been kicked in the back, he bent backwards, arched into an unnatural, almost-crab shape with a strangled grunt.
“You alright?”
“No, he's not.” Janus told him from the shadows. “Better off than you though.”
The man spasmed forwards, a murderous light radiating from his eyes.
Janus sat on the cobbles, complaining to himself about how wretchedly uncomfortable they were, as he watched the possessed man hack his friend apart and then take his own life. When he was done with that, he curled up against the Farhighter restaurant's oven wall and dreamed peacefully.
Janus' bow moved elegantly and measuredly over the violin's strings, providing a gorgeous, exuberant soundtrack to the sharply contrasting buildings of Caragean that towered, sooty and rickety, over the narrow cobbled streets. Few people, save the odd patrolling Lanciar, scampering street urchin, or homeward-bound vendor, passed to make his busking worthwhile. Nonetheless, he was determined to squeeze every penny out of it he could.
He knew, if he didn't find somewhere to stay, that he'd die of some sickness soon.
However, at this stage of the evening, with the moon peeking over the pocked roofs and every self-respecting citizen gone to bed, Janus reasoned that, at this time, it'd be a good time to start looking for a dry spot to curl up for the night. He packed up his violin, his only really valuable possession, and looked around for a suitable alleyway. His eyes alighted on a small shop specialising in Farhighter foods and perked up – the heat off its ovens should keep him warm for the night.
It was a long way for a rich merchant's idle third son to fall.
But, Janus reflected bitterly, as he walked past the yellow square of light that was the Farhighter restaurant's door, he had the rich merchant's oldest son to thank for that.
As Janus headed for the alleyway, wrapped up in his vengeful thoughts, another pair of eyes fastened onto him. Gregory's avaricious, bloodshot eyes eyed the rich violin case and the jangling purse of small change the busker brought with him and, unconsciously, his huge ham-fists clenched and unclenched greedily. A further evaluation of the busker himself was more comforting still: beneath the carefully frayed red robe, the busker was merely a small, nondescript-looking man of average Lain height, complexion, and build. In fact, if he wanted to, he could probably blend into the crowds of Caragean effortlessly if he wanted to.
There were, however, no crowds at this time of night, and no-one to hear the unfortunate little man scream.
Janus pushed his way into the Farhighter restaurant, where an enormously fat, incredibly bored-looking Farhighter woman leaned on a crummy bar, wattle-draped face rested on the bubble of lard that had probably begun life as a hand. Even looking her would have put Janus off of his food, back when he had the money to afford such luxuries.
“Vot you vont?” she asked him in heavily accented Kamarean. Janus cast a glance at the stereotypically misspelt menu tacked onto the roof above the bar, then at the array of foodstuffs assembled beneath the dirty glass comprising the bar. Both looked equally unappetising.
“Err... Two Akarean sausages and a plate of chips, please.” That said, Janus sat down at one of the few tables the restaurant offered and looked around, depressedly, at the restaurant. Its most salient feature was its yellowness: yellow walls, yellow-tiled floor, yellow grime on the windows. Even the supposedly-reflective steel of the tables and chairs showed the yellow of the surrounding room, as if they had spent so long in the restaurant's overwhelming yellowness that they had absorbed it into them.
“Enjoy meal.” The fat woman set a plate of food in front of him, pocketed the change he put on the table, and wandered off. Idly, Janus wondered how the plate had managed to escape her gravity well. The Akarean sausage was dreadful – but then, that was the meaning of Akarean sausage. It came being an uncultured and impoverished people – it was comprised whatever you could get your hands on (not necessarily meat, either) rolled into a rough cylinder, then stuck on a hot thing until it didn't fall apart when you picked it up. Its one virtue was its invariable cheapness.
Janus sincerely hoped the green was the inventive addition of a cabbage leaf.
Two probably meatless conglomerates and a plate of greasy cardboard later, Janus was fortified against the night. He pushed the door into the alley open and stepped out into the chilling Caragean night, dreading the comfortless night spent on the cobbles.
“How are you.” a gravelly voice growled into his ear.
Something hit the side of his head and as he fell, he vaguely registered the sound of the restaurant door slamming shut, cutting off all possibility of help – not as if the fat Farhighter woman would have been much help. Where's a Lanciar when you need one? he thought groggily.
Gregory and his two henchmen chuckled moronically to themselves as they observed the prostrate musician, sprawled helplessly on the ground. Gregory had always thought that to “jump out of your skin” was a figure of speech, but Janus had jumped so high it had nearly looked like there were two of him. There was, however, most definitely one of him, and that scrambling away from the muggers at top speed.
“Stop!” Gregory growled, pointing a meaty finger at a spot on the ground. Obediently, Janus froze, babbling almost incoherently.
“Please... take anything you want. Just leave my violin alone...”
“Money. Throw it there.” A pathetically empty wallet sailed out of the dark and settled with a jangle on the stones. “And the violin.”
“No – not the violin!”
“Give me the violin!” Gregory started towards the prostrate musician, and tripped into hell.
The thug's face impacted hot, scorched, crumbling earth, leaving a face-shaped imprint in it. What the hell? He rolled over – and made a little whimpering sound as he saw the red, striated sky laced with bands of brooding cloud and lashed by bolts of lightning, which stretched endlessly until finally it hit the edge of the vast black plain he was lying on. The air itself burned, a sulphurous concoction that seared Gregory's throat on the way down. There was nothing in sight save the carbonised acres of earth and the unsettled sky.
Janus stepped out of the air.
“Wha – how – eh - ”
“Do shut up. I neither want nor need your feeble-minded thoughts.” Janus dismissed his assailant's babblings almost nonchalantly, examining the strange place. “I have to say, not even I'm quite sure where we are. I don't think I've been here before. As for how, you failed to notice the magical trap I set around the sack of gold and you... haha... can-tripped into a whole new world.” The mage's gaze turned back to his terrified opponent, prostrate in the dirt.
“Nonetheless! I'm sure you'll do well here... though there's nothing to build a house with, and no food, and no-one to talk to – not even the flesh-rending, blood-drinking, murderous demon-type people you usually find in these type of places. You should starve to death in about a month.”
“Eh... but I don't deserve this! I have a wife...”
“That you beat mercilessly every time you go home. She will be glad now you're gone. Anyway, I didn't deserve to have my money and violin pilfered by you and your cronies, but that never stopped you, did it. Give you something to think about, at least, when while you're rotting away up here. Now! I really must be going, though comparative to here, literally no time has passed back in Elleria. Enjoy your stay!”
Janus winked cheerily, flashed a huge grin, and left Gregory to a fate worse than death.
* * *
He flashed back into the real world, and time resumed uninterrupted.
“Boss?”
“What'd you do to him, you rat?” Janus decided to toy with these buffoons a little more.
“Nothing – honest! I didn't do anything!”
“He's right, Uji. He's just an idiot.” The other man diverted his attention for just a second, which was all Janus needed. Instantly, he initiated the formula required to take possession of another's mind. Rows of magical symbols scrolled in front of his eyes, arcane glyphs scribing themselves into existence at the edges of his consciousness and rushing across his field of vision to vanish, well-heeded, at the other edge of his vision.
You summoned me.
“Kba'j'righrt'ashka'ghur'yurt'bana'madarius? Is that you?” Janus said inside his own head.
I told you... just call me Kba. The spirit's projected thoughts conveyed a faint sense of irritation and Janus smiled delightedly. He liked nothing better than winding his personal genie up - save making some thug pay for his idiocy. What may I do for you?
“Find me that man's mind.”
Consider it done.
No sooner than Uji had registered his companion's words than the man suddenly... thrashed, was the best word for it. Almost as if he had been kicked in the back, he bent backwards, arched into an unnatural, almost-crab shape with a strangled grunt.
“You alright?”
“No, he's not.” Janus told him from the shadows. “Better off than you though.”
The man spasmed forwards, a murderous light radiating from his eyes.
Janus sat on the cobbles, complaining to himself about how wretchedly uncomfortable they were, as he watched the possessed man hack his friend apart and then take his own life. When he was done with that, he curled up against the Farhighter restaurant's oven wall and dreamed peacefully.
Friday, 12 November 2010
Cereal Killer
I hate cereal.
I really do.
However, I being me, my deep-rooted hatred of cereal comes not from the fact that it tastes like cardboard no matter how much chocolate, sugar or milk you put on it, nor from the fact that it's actually those twirly things that come out of a pencil sharpener when you sharpen your pencil. No, cereal is a sign of today's world. Mass-produced, quickly-prepared, tasteless, no-one in their right minds would touch a bowl ofcardboard cereal unless they had a boring modern job in a boring modern office to go to, and all they had to look forward to was a boring modern life. Cereal could not exist in a remotely interesting life. It is the dreary spawn of a dreary life, and it warps the space-time continuum around it, transforming the land around it into Plath's "province of the stuck record", ensuring the times are tidy. History's beaten the hazard, and now we can all have boring cereal for breakfast. Whoop de bleedin doo.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm a hypocrite, and if I were dropped somewhere I would deem interesting, I might, within five minutes, be ardently wishing to be sitting here whining. I certainly cannot tell for sure. I do know one thing though. Whatever the deeper meanings of it all, I bloody hate cereal.
I really do.
However, I being me, my deep-rooted hatred of cereal comes not from the fact that it tastes like cardboard no matter how much chocolate, sugar or milk you put on it, nor from the fact that it's actually those twirly things that come out of a pencil sharpener when you sharpen your pencil. No, cereal is a sign of today's world. Mass-produced, quickly-prepared, tasteless, no-one in their right minds would touch a bowl of
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm a hypocrite, and if I were dropped somewhere I would deem interesting, I might, within five minutes, be ardently wishing to be sitting here whining. I certainly cannot tell for sure. I do know one thing though. Whatever the deeper meanings of it all, I bloody hate cereal.
Monday, 25 October 2010
Watch This
Set this chronologically wherever you like.
Watch This
“Watch this.” Darken told Hel, his infuriatingly superior smile playing across his lips.
“What is it, Darken? I've been sitting in this damn pit of a catacomb for three hours and still nothing has happened!” Hel punctuated his sentence with a frustrated bash on the enchanted railings separating him from the chamber beneath.
“Sssh... don't do that. He'll hear.” Darken admonished, as he began to back away into the dark.
“Who'll hear?”
“Just watch.”
* * *
The necromancer's boots crunched on the gravel. Irritatedly, he cast a spell to mute them.
As he descended the ancient marble stairs into the Catacombs of the Dialusian Order, the light gradually faded away from his gaunt, grey face, leaving its ancient patchwork of scars and wrinkles bathed in shadow. The practically compulsory black necromancer's robes left eddying trails in the old dust of the catacombs, thoroughly concealing the galvanised, desiccated flesh beneath that was technically still just about alive.
But not for much longer, if Julian the Bloodless, the necromancer extraordinaire with magic for blood, self-proclaimed greatest magician in the world, and would-be lich had anything to do with it.
As the moonlight faded away completely, he cast his thoughts back to the conversation that had prompted this eccentric little trek of his. Who would have thought that the dirty little inn could have yielded such treasure? Though it hadn't been the inn, really, but chance, that Julian should have bumped into the stranger: the nobleman slumming it in the poor clothes. They had been forced to share a table in the packed inn.
“Good evening.” The adventurer had flashed Julian a white-toothed grin which never touched his mocking eyes. “Can I buy you a drink?”
And they had gotten talking, and the adventurer had let slip that the necromancer Tatula, the only person living (or not, as it were) who knew the secret to lichhood and – the adventurer had confided with an infuriating, knowing smile – that she had taken up residence in the Catacombs of the Dialusian Order, just up the road, and that he was personally going to eliminate her and the threat she posed.
Julian wondered idly which one of the corpses that littered the lightless hallway was his.
They were everywhere – old and young, rich and poor, old and new. But, Julian noticed, there were only incomplete or unhealthy bodies left – a sure sign of a necromancer's presence. Tatula had surely raised herself an undead army to protect against the likes of him.
That wouldn't be a problem, though... - unlike...
A morningstar on a chain, burning with magical flame, swung down out of nowhere and -
* * *
“That looked like it hurt.” Hel remarked, squinting into Darken's divinatory orb.
“You don't say.” Darken answered sarcastically. “I have to say, I was expecting a better show. Look at the way his skull caved in – no wards at a...” Darken stopped.
“What?” Hel, who had turned away, inquired.
“Well,” Darken replied, maintaining his composure admirably, “I have to say I wasn't expecting that.” Hel peered into the divinatory orb again.
“You said something about his head caving in, didn't you?”
“Yes...”
“So why's he walking away without a bother on him?”
* * *
The last tendrils of magic sucked their way back into Julian's veins, leaving his face exactly as it had been. So his previous experiments in phylactery had paid off to some extent.
He rounded a flesh-strewn corner and -
He couldn't believe it. It had been so easy – because, on the pedestal in the middle of the towering, circular chamber in front of him, there sat a slight, bone-white girl with a deadpan expression on her gaunt face.
Tatula.
Julian grinned savagely, walking forward. She might look like a woman, but he could smell the death off of her!
“My lady!” he began. “I have come as a supplica - ”
“Look.” she said. “A butterfly.”
Julian looked. Incredibly, so there was.
* * *
“Tatula won't be able to defeat him.” Darken stated confidently. Now that Julian was in the chamber below them, they could merely peer through the railings. “They're too alike and he's too powerful. She may weaken him, but without my aid – or yours – she will not defeat him. Still... no sense coming in too soon. Let's see how things play out. In fact, this can be part of your training.”
* * *
The lightning bolt slammed Julian into the wall, leaving a trail of popping sparks where blood should be. He slumped to the floor bonelessly, legs scrabbling to get up.
“You should not have come here.” Tatula told him, her big, sincere eyes drilling into his mournfully. “You know that there can only be one lich in the world. You know I hunted down all others. Why then, did you come to me seeking such forbidden wisdom?” She settled herself so as, arms crossed, she towered over him, all five foot of her, supported on the boots planted firmly either side of his outstretched legs.
Julian coughed. A stray blue spark flickered out of the corner of his mouth.
“I thought you would be wise enough to share your knowledge with posterity.”
“Wise?” A hint of disbelief coloured the edge of Tatula's speech, the first sign of emotion he had gotten from her. “I have hunted down and slain necromancers greater than you by far. Why should I fear you?”
“Because,” and Julian paused to grin evilly, “they didn't have one of these.”
* * *
“Did you see that coming?” Hel asked Darken sarcastically.
“In fairness,” Darken sighed, “no. I did not.”
* * *
“A Neromantic Nullification Matrix.” Julian explained to the helpless lich, indicating with a half-smile the white, plastic-like net he had cast over her. Her eyes, the only part of her with locomotive ability, glared at him accusingly. The rest of her lay sprawled on the floor. “Extremely rare, since they require co-operation between the Order and the Eaghlosh of Dia to create. They are, however, very useful against the likes of you and me. Now, Tatula, you are going to answer my questions.”
“Somehow,” a booming, dramatic voice announced from the shadows, “I think not.”
“Do you?” Julian asked disinterestedly as the adventurer from the tavern strode jauntily down through the air, kept afloat on a platform of magic.
“Because, you see,” the adventurer announced grandiosely, “you have had the misfortune to cross Darken, crusader against necromancy, scourge of the Order, vanquisher of the Goblin King. And now, you are going to release my companion and then, you are going to die.”
“I'd love to oblige you, but I'd rather die in a manner of my choosing. Otherise, it can be very detrimental to the health.”
“Well, if you shan't, then I shall. Be free, Tatula!” Darken gestured imperiously, and a wave of searing red arced towards the Matrix – and passed through it. Tatula's eyes widened in a soundless scream.
Julian held up a tiny, white key to the light between two taloned fingers.
“This, my obscure friend, is the only means of opening the Matrix. You will have to kill me to get it and, as I am sure you will find, that is a very difficult proposition.”
“Well, I am sure that will pose no problem for Darken, finest mage in the land! Have at ye!” Another flick of the fingers, and a wave of fire flashed at Julian, knocking him to the ground. Fire flashed up the necromancer's robes, carbonising his clothes and skin – but the magic flashed out, fixing it all up and allowing him to retaliate. A lance of crackling blackness stabbed out at Darken – but he caught and quenched it in a splash of blue in the palm of his hand.
“Oh dear.” Julian said to himself. Now, it was Darken's turn to grin evilly.
“Goodbye, necromancer.” said he. And he snapped his fingers.
A ring of fire popped into being around his fingers, burning with the brightness of a concentrated sun, and expanded drastically, slamming into the walls and dropping to the floor, covering Julian in a layer of sticky, napalm-like mana that burned through his just-fixed flesh like so much dry firewood, and he screamed, oh how he screamed -
And Darken slumped, visibly exhausted, but exhilarated.
“Did you see that?” he screamed up to Hel. “I won, against Julian the Bloodless, self-proclaimed greatest magician in the world. Not so great now, is he?”
“I think you may be forgetting something.” a rasping voice whispered into his ear.
“No way...” Darken squeezed his eyes closed, acutely sensing with dread the utter void of mana inside of him. Slowly, with small, halting footsteps like a dancer might use, he swiveled himself around until he he was facing the voice.
And opened his eyes.
Hel had to give Darken credit: in the face of the horrific abomination he had unwittingly created, he remained remarkably calm. He looked the scorched skeleton with the glowing phylactery gem for a heart up and down, and said.
“Aha. I have to smash the gem.”
“Much good it will do you now, now you have – finally – ascended me to lichhood.” A scorched-bone arm shot out and grabbed Darken around the throat, lifting him effortlessly, chokingly into the air. “I now know the secret. Even more embarrassingly, I had it all along. Silly me.
“Now, as a new lich, I have much to attend to. Not least the manner of your death. Now how would you - ”
“Oi!” The lich half-turned, fixing its blazing coal-eyes on the hugely muscled young man striding into the chamber. “You!”
“I prefer Julian. Stand back, imbecile, or I shall have to kill you first.” And the lich turned away, disregarding Hel.
Arrogance, Hel thought. Nearly killed Darken and now it's going to kill him. A quick thought summoned up a spell of strength. Hel drew back his fist -
- and Julian screamed, a reedy, whistling cry, as Hel drove his fist effortlessly through the lich's carbonised ribcage and wrenched out the glistening phylactery gem.
“Y – you're a mage too?” Julian gasped through what was left of his vocal chords.
“Well done, imbecile.” And Hel rammed the phylactery gem into Julian's head. This time, his skull stayed caved in. A flash of electric blue, a nearly-perceived scream, and Julian the Bloodless flashed into the void, bound for whatever served Dia's Realm as a hell.
Darken picked himself off the ground and brushed all the bits of Julian off of himself.
“Thank you, Hel, but there was really no need.” he coughed. “I had everything under control.”
“Don't talk shit.” Hel told him bluntly. “Watch this indeed.” A moment, then Darken slumped.
“Yes.” he said. “Yes, you saved me. I could have defeated him – but I underestimated him.”
“You forgot something.”
Darken sighed. “Thank you.”
“Good. Now, let's get this thing off of Tatula.”
Watch This
“Watch this.” Darken told Hel, his infuriatingly superior smile playing across his lips.
“What is it, Darken? I've been sitting in this damn pit of a catacomb for three hours and still nothing has happened!” Hel punctuated his sentence with a frustrated bash on the enchanted railings separating him from the chamber beneath.
“Sssh... don't do that. He'll hear.” Darken admonished, as he began to back away into the dark.
“Who'll hear?”
“Just watch.”
* * *
The necromancer's boots crunched on the gravel. Irritatedly, he cast a spell to mute them.
As he descended the ancient marble stairs into the Catacombs of the Dialusian Order, the light gradually faded away from his gaunt, grey face, leaving its ancient patchwork of scars and wrinkles bathed in shadow. The practically compulsory black necromancer's robes left eddying trails in the old dust of the catacombs, thoroughly concealing the galvanised, desiccated flesh beneath that was technically still just about alive.
But not for much longer, if Julian the Bloodless, the necromancer extraordinaire with magic for blood, self-proclaimed greatest magician in the world, and would-be lich had anything to do with it.
As the moonlight faded away completely, he cast his thoughts back to the conversation that had prompted this eccentric little trek of his. Who would have thought that the dirty little inn could have yielded such treasure? Though it hadn't been the inn, really, but chance, that Julian should have bumped into the stranger: the nobleman slumming it in the poor clothes. They had been forced to share a table in the packed inn.
“Good evening.” The adventurer had flashed Julian a white-toothed grin which never touched his mocking eyes. “Can I buy you a drink?”
And they had gotten talking, and the adventurer had let slip that the necromancer Tatula, the only person living (or not, as it were) who knew the secret to lichhood and – the adventurer had confided with an infuriating, knowing smile – that she had taken up residence in the Catacombs of the Dialusian Order, just up the road, and that he was personally going to eliminate her and the threat she posed.
Julian wondered idly which one of the corpses that littered the lightless hallway was his.
They were everywhere – old and young, rich and poor, old and new. But, Julian noticed, there were only incomplete or unhealthy bodies left – a sure sign of a necromancer's presence. Tatula had surely raised herself an undead army to protect against the likes of him.
That wouldn't be a problem, though... - unlike...
A morningstar on a chain, burning with magical flame, swung down out of nowhere and -
* * *
“That looked like it hurt.” Hel remarked, squinting into Darken's divinatory orb.
“You don't say.” Darken answered sarcastically. “I have to say, I was expecting a better show. Look at the way his skull caved in – no wards at a...” Darken stopped.
“What?” Hel, who had turned away, inquired.
“Well,” Darken replied, maintaining his composure admirably, “I have to say I wasn't expecting that.” Hel peered into the divinatory orb again.
“You said something about his head caving in, didn't you?”
“Yes...”
“So why's he walking away without a bother on him?”
* * *
The last tendrils of magic sucked their way back into Julian's veins, leaving his face exactly as it had been. So his previous experiments in phylactery had paid off to some extent.
He rounded a flesh-strewn corner and -
He couldn't believe it. It had been so easy – because, on the pedestal in the middle of the towering, circular chamber in front of him, there sat a slight, bone-white girl with a deadpan expression on her gaunt face.
Tatula.
Julian grinned savagely, walking forward. She might look like a woman, but he could smell the death off of her!
“My lady!” he began. “I have come as a supplica - ”
“Look.” she said. “A butterfly.”
Julian looked. Incredibly, so there was.
* * *
“Tatula won't be able to defeat him.” Darken stated confidently. Now that Julian was in the chamber below them, they could merely peer through the railings. “They're too alike and he's too powerful. She may weaken him, but without my aid – or yours – she will not defeat him. Still... no sense coming in too soon. Let's see how things play out. In fact, this can be part of your training.”
* * *
The lightning bolt slammed Julian into the wall, leaving a trail of popping sparks where blood should be. He slumped to the floor bonelessly, legs scrabbling to get up.
“You should not have come here.” Tatula told him, her big, sincere eyes drilling into his mournfully. “You know that there can only be one lich in the world. You know I hunted down all others. Why then, did you come to me seeking such forbidden wisdom?” She settled herself so as, arms crossed, she towered over him, all five foot of her, supported on the boots planted firmly either side of his outstretched legs.
Julian coughed. A stray blue spark flickered out of the corner of his mouth.
“I thought you would be wise enough to share your knowledge with posterity.”
“Wise?” A hint of disbelief coloured the edge of Tatula's speech, the first sign of emotion he had gotten from her. “I have hunted down and slain necromancers greater than you by far. Why should I fear you?”
“Because,” and Julian paused to grin evilly, “they didn't have one of these.”
* * *
“Did you see that coming?” Hel asked Darken sarcastically.
“In fairness,” Darken sighed, “no. I did not.”
* * *
“A Neromantic Nullification Matrix.” Julian explained to the helpless lich, indicating with a half-smile the white, plastic-like net he had cast over her. Her eyes, the only part of her with locomotive ability, glared at him accusingly. The rest of her lay sprawled on the floor. “Extremely rare, since they require co-operation between the Order and the Eaghlosh of Dia to create. They are, however, very useful against the likes of you and me. Now, Tatula, you are going to answer my questions.”
“Somehow,” a booming, dramatic voice announced from the shadows, “I think not.”
“Do you?” Julian asked disinterestedly as the adventurer from the tavern strode jauntily down through the air, kept afloat on a platform of magic.
“Because, you see,” the adventurer announced grandiosely, “you have had the misfortune to cross Darken, crusader against necromancy, scourge of the Order, vanquisher of the Goblin King. And now, you are going to release my companion and then, you are going to die.”
“I'd love to oblige you, but I'd rather die in a manner of my choosing. Otherise, it can be very detrimental to the health.”
“Well, if you shan't, then I shall. Be free, Tatula!” Darken gestured imperiously, and a wave of searing red arced towards the Matrix – and passed through it. Tatula's eyes widened in a soundless scream.
Julian held up a tiny, white key to the light between two taloned fingers.
“This, my obscure friend, is the only means of opening the Matrix. You will have to kill me to get it and, as I am sure you will find, that is a very difficult proposition.”
“Well, I am sure that will pose no problem for Darken, finest mage in the land! Have at ye!” Another flick of the fingers, and a wave of fire flashed at Julian, knocking him to the ground. Fire flashed up the necromancer's robes, carbonising his clothes and skin – but the magic flashed out, fixing it all up and allowing him to retaliate. A lance of crackling blackness stabbed out at Darken – but he caught and quenched it in a splash of blue in the palm of his hand.
“Oh dear.” Julian said to himself. Now, it was Darken's turn to grin evilly.
“Goodbye, necromancer.” said he. And he snapped his fingers.
A ring of fire popped into being around his fingers, burning with the brightness of a concentrated sun, and expanded drastically, slamming into the walls and dropping to the floor, covering Julian in a layer of sticky, napalm-like mana that burned through his just-fixed flesh like so much dry firewood, and he screamed, oh how he screamed -
And Darken slumped, visibly exhausted, but exhilarated.
“Did you see that?” he screamed up to Hel. “I won, against Julian the Bloodless, self-proclaimed greatest magician in the world. Not so great now, is he?”
“I think you may be forgetting something.” a rasping voice whispered into his ear.
“No way...” Darken squeezed his eyes closed, acutely sensing with dread the utter void of mana inside of him. Slowly, with small, halting footsteps like a dancer might use, he swiveled himself around until he he was facing the voice.
And opened his eyes.
Hel had to give Darken credit: in the face of the horrific abomination he had unwittingly created, he remained remarkably calm. He looked the scorched skeleton with the glowing phylactery gem for a heart up and down, and said.
“Aha. I have to smash the gem.”
“Much good it will do you now, now you have – finally – ascended me to lichhood.” A scorched-bone arm shot out and grabbed Darken around the throat, lifting him effortlessly, chokingly into the air. “I now know the secret. Even more embarrassingly, I had it all along. Silly me.
“Now, as a new lich, I have much to attend to. Not least the manner of your death. Now how would you - ”
“Oi!” The lich half-turned, fixing its blazing coal-eyes on the hugely muscled young man striding into the chamber. “You!”
“I prefer Julian. Stand back, imbecile, or I shall have to kill you first.” And the lich turned away, disregarding Hel.
Arrogance, Hel thought. Nearly killed Darken and now it's going to kill him. A quick thought summoned up a spell of strength. Hel drew back his fist -
- and Julian screamed, a reedy, whistling cry, as Hel drove his fist effortlessly through the lich's carbonised ribcage and wrenched out the glistening phylactery gem.
“Y – you're a mage too?” Julian gasped through what was left of his vocal chords.
“Well done, imbecile.” And Hel rammed the phylactery gem into Julian's head. This time, his skull stayed caved in. A flash of electric blue, a nearly-perceived scream, and Julian the Bloodless flashed into the void, bound for whatever served Dia's Realm as a hell.
Darken picked himself off the ground and brushed all the bits of Julian off of himself.
“Thank you, Hel, but there was really no need.” he coughed. “I had everything under control.”
“Don't talk shit.” Hel told him bluntly. “Watch this indeed.” A moment, then Darken slumped.
“Yes.” he said. “Yes, you saved me. I could have defeated him – but I underestimated him.”
“You forgot something.”
Darken sighed. “Thank you.”
“Good. Now, let's get this thing off of Tatula.”
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
Small Pleasures
As winter settles in, I find myself enjoying the smaller things in life more, like warming my hands under the hot tap, sitting down to my favourite dinner, or waking up on Saturday. It doesn't matter that within minutes, my hands will refreeze, or that I will pay for my indulgence in later life, or that I will while the weekend away, bored. Just for a moment, the world is perfect.
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