- Contest Thing
- In the Capital
- The First Guard
- On the Way With Words
- Khoz stuff
- The Great Challenges
- Vintages
- The Allegory of the Lairs
- Never Will Exist
- Devoured By Its Kin
- The Brotherhood of Alchemists
- Avoided rewrite
I remember doing the Time Warp.
Drinking those moments when
The blackness would hit me
And the void would be calling.
LET'S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN
Seriously, the actual thing is on the second tab.
I remember when I met that incomparable woman. Under the grey skies of a May morn, I stood in front of a tree and prayed in the capital of my country, wishing for happiness and nothing more. Today was the day I would meet the woman I loved, Wanda. I had been anticipating this day for months now, and I decided to say one last prayer to the shrine. The tree had been planted by the wife of a dead artist, and it was made to give wishes and prayers to; each wish that came true was said to bear a fruit once the tree blossomed, and the sweeter the wish, the sweeter the fruit.
I was hardly a native in this city of politics and demagoguery (in fact, I was content to stay as far away from it as I possibly could), and was content to stay at home in the psudeo-tundra. My usually day consisted of staring down at my desk and wishing that the Colonial Congress would stop objecting to everything the queen said and just go along with her for once. Despite this, I did like visiting the less political parts of the Capital; it had some fine dining, interesting monuments to fallen heroes, and the museums were simply fantastic.
It was walking along the avenue in front of the Ministry of Transportation that I met Wanda. She looking at a map of the city on her GlassHand, and checking the time, clearly impatient for me. She had the complexion of someone from the northern territories, perhaps Nuevo Azul or Everstrom. Her hair was dyed a garish shade of blue, and she was wearing a pair of darkened glasses over her eyes. She looked exactly as she did in the picture she sent to me last night, down to her black glasses. We had agreed to meet here and go on what I suppose could be called a date; her native town was only 20 miles away from the capital, and we had been in communication for much longer than that, and it was her that suggested that we meet up in the first place.
As soon as she saw me, she smiled, putting away her Hand. We struck up a conversation, she struck a match and began smoking (much to my distaste, but she at least took care to blow it out of the direction of my face). I brought up the situation in the southern territories, and she brushed off the subject, simply saying "I don't want to talk about politics; this is the first time we've met in real life." I acknowledged this was fair, and asked her where she wished to go; her first idea was to get some food.
So, we did just that. It was a second breakfast of sorts, with us walking into a simple restaurant and having simple food: seaweed-wrapped leopard burgers, with eggplant ketchup. As we ate, we reminisced about how we first came into contact; it was simple coincidence that my letter had gotten intercepted and sent to her house by mistake when I was trying to send it to my grandfather up north in the true tundra. Her mother, a postal worker, had accidentally brought the letter home, and it was opened by Wanda by mistake.
"You're lucky you weren't arrested," I said, eating some of the potato skins I had ordered with my food. "Mail fraud is quite serious."
She shrugged in response, having finished her food already. "We're both lucky. If not for that letter, I'd never have met you." She smiled, and squeezed my free hand gently. I squeezed in return, and smiled at her, causing an older man in the cafe to gag in revulsion and mutter something about northerners. I rolled my eyes, and we made our way out of the restaurant.
On our way out, we passed a rally of some sort, protesting the recent appointment of an abnormally-eyed human to the high court; it had caused the populace to go up in arms, and some were wondering if she wouldn't just turn someone whose case she presided over into stone or accidentally set the chambers of the court on fire, or hypnotize the other justices into doing her bidding. Of course, for all they knew, abnormal-eyed just meant that her eyes had white sclera instead of the usual black.
"How unpleasant," muttered Wanda, walking past the crowd. "You'd think that eye color wouldn't matter, now."
"It's the westerners that are doing this," I replied, swinging myself around a light post for no reason other than I could. "They're so afraid of change they've been wearing the same clothes for the past 5 years." Both this and the swinging elicited a giggle from her, and a wink from me. "To the art museum, then?"
"Yes!" She was an artist herself, albeit amateur, but I liked her work well enough. We saw all the great artists in the gallery; the Garney family, various members of the "Cold" movement, the Neo-Capitalists, and even a few surrealist pieces which had not yet been burned by the government. There was even a special exhibit dedicated to the Art of Circles, in which every piece was either inspired by circles, made using circles, were circles, or were made by circles. The latter group viewed this as racist, and found the name "circle" degrading; they preferred "angularly challenged".
It was getting late, and she needed to return to Everstorm soon, so I decided to treat her to one last visit: the Museum of Natural History. For some reason I still cannot fathom, she liked animals that had large amounts of sharp teeth, such as sabercats or sharks or the quokka. The museum, being one of the largest in the country, had all of those; the especially fawned over the Martian Amphibious Shark exhibit that was present.
But, like all good things, this had to come to an end. We eventually exited the museum when it was closing time, both of us exhausted. We stood in the plaza near the museum, in front of a memorial dedicated to those who had died in the Fifth War. She smiled at me, and we embraced, however briefly. It had been years, literally years, since I had been touched by another person. I felt like I was about to cry out of pure joy.
And, just as quickly as the contact began, it ended. She made her way towards the metro station, I made my way back to my hotel room. As soon as I returned, I sat at the desk in the room, and began writing another letter to her; miles away, I knew that she was doing the same.
Abel was a guardian of the Library. …A prototype docent that went wrong. He was corrupted by the Serpent, and since the Serpent's Hand worships said Serpent…
The docents that walk through the halls of the Library were not always present. Before the first docent, the Library was in chaos; books would be stolen, Library cards smashed, countless tomes of knowledge ruined. So, on a fateful day, the Head Archivist instituted a rule: Those who damage the Library will be made instead to serve it.
Not long after this rule was instituted, a pair of siblings entered the Library, having long squabbled with one another. They knew the Library was a place for peace, but tensions ran high, and they had a long, ongoing argument over matters of their family, of women, of food and grain, and various other petty human matters. They had no concern of knowledge.
The younger brother, with the countenance akin to that of an innocent lamb, struck first out of anger. The elder did not retaliate, for he was more peaceful, and believed his brother's tantrum would soon end. It did not, and the younger one took up a great tome and struck the elder one on the shoulders with such force that his arms became limp. Crying out in agony, the older brother waited for the end, when the Head Archivist himself came and separated the two.
And so, the younger brother was made to serve the Library.
Stories are the backbone of the cosmos. Each time a story is told, somewhere in the great expanse that is the multiverse, life begins anew. Whether it is a great epic novel or a simple poem written in a coffee shop, each story is powerful and significant. And those who tell the stories are more powerful still.
Since the first word was spoken, those who have spun tales have been revered and reviled. However, a select few storytellers are said to be born with a unique gift that aids their stories. This gift has many names: the Silver-Kissed Tongue, Bibliomancy1, Anansi's Web, and most recently, the Way With Words.
Those who are gifted with a Way With Words all share common physical traits: firstly, they are all human. Not simply sapient, but human. No other creature can be gifted with a Way With Words, although many civilizations have attempted to do so. Secondly, no individual with a Way With Words has ever been recorded surviving past 60 years of age. Thirdly, and most significantly, those who have the Way With Words, in most cases, cannot bear children. The only known case of an individual with a Way With Words bearing a child is an individual known only as J.S., the owner of a lumber company in Wisconsin, United States, who perished as a result of the actions of another with a Way With Words.
Metaphysically speaking, those who have a Way With Words have the ability to spin the fabric of reality like they spin a story. To do this, they record a story in some manner, even if it is only in their mind, and then present it to a captive audience. Reality will, in the words of the late sheik Nil Swim2, "bend over backwards to fulfill the conditions of the story, even if it's impossible, or it has to change time itself. Nothing is safe from the influence of a story."
Those who posses the Way With Words, whom I have termed "Weavers", use their skills in a variety of ways. Both J.S. and the individual who eliminated him used their respective gifts to build up towns around them and make themselves prosperous; both of these towns still stand today, albeit on practically opposite sides of the country. Others have used their gifts to tell of great floods or storms that sweep away enemies or enrich the land. Some even use their gifts to comfort others in a time of crisis, giving hope and life to their surroundings with a few paltry words.
Sadly, this gift is becoming increasingly rare as we enter the 21st century. None have exhibited this trait since the late 1950s, and despite the increasingly varied forms of storytelling, only one individuals is currently known to have the Way With Words. He lives in a tribal village in Asia, where his tongue was cut out due accusations of witchcraft; as he does not know how to write, he cannot effectively use his gift in any way.
Notable individuals who possessed a Way With Words include Morgan Robertson, the aforementioned J.S. and sheik Nil Swim, and [TEXT OBSCURED]
Excerpt from Doolittle Magazine Online, Dec 2007
THE WAR IN KHOZ
What the U.N. doesn't want you to know about this great state.
The Capital is the largest city in the Kingdom of Khoz. It has no name other than the Capital, and is inhabited by roughly 7,000 people, even if the United Nations refuses to define them as such. Taking a walk through the capital, you're bound to stop by the market, where you'll find all manner of fruits and vegetables up for sale, as well as fine clothing and even the meat of those who have been executed for crimes against the various Laws of Khoz. You may think it's barbaric, but bear in mind… only 2% of the population of Khoz is actually human. The rest is assorted species of mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians, cephalopods and insects, all of which are just as intelligent as the average human, even if most of them don't look particularly humanoid.
That's not the only odd thing about the Kingdom of Khoz; you can enter it on Kilimanjaro and emerge somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, or find a way into it in the middle of the Pacific and end up walking out into the Gobi desert. This can be a tad disconcerting for first-time visitors, but to a seasoned traveler such as Dr. Allan Murray, it's as easy as walking out the front door in the morning. Dr. Murray has visited Khoz over 70 times in the course of his career as a neozoologist, and each time he's been fascinated by it.
But not all is well in this Kingdom. An average day in Khoz for the past year has consisted of declarations of war and attempts to make peace. Within the space of a single day, a plane flies overhead, attempting to drop bombs on the Capital. It is brought down by the Peregrines, who hurl rocks and criminals at the engines, bringing it down. Elsewhere, an attempt is once again made on Queen Yotar Rex's life, this time through cyanide; her royal medics are able to detect it before it is administered. Elsewhere still, a village is burned to the ground, and all the woman and children in it are flash-cremated. Why is this?
The destruction is caused by a group affiliated with the United Nations, known in certain circles as the "Gawkers" for their ability to gawk at everything they don't understand, and then destroy it. They don't understand why Khoz is, and see it as a threat to normalcy, and as such, believe it must be wiped off the map.
Come and see,
The Challenges three,
Fire, Runners, Mystery.
Magic shall rule the Fire
Strength shall guide Runners in times dire
Knowledge will lead Mystery out of the mire
-Lemurian poem
"The time has come." Scholar-King Rumez the Fifth addressed the people of the Library-City of Kemue, his seat of power, even if the city was not truly his own. "The Year of Challenges has come to pass." The red-fronted King cleared his throat. "The Kingdoms of Runners and… Fire" He spat out the last word "are also holding their own challenges to select their Kings, as is tradition."
"The rules are the same as they are every year of challenges: every subject in the Kingdom of sexual maturity is allowed to take part in the Tests of Kings. The man or woman that scores the highest average percentage on the Tests shall be crowned King of Mystery!" The Scholar-King raised his arms at the last three words; the crowd cheered. "Of course, I myself will take the test, but I have as much chance as anyone of scoring highest. The tests begin in three days time. May the Mysteries of life be solved-"
"And may Knowledge guide us!" The crowd shouted in unison, finishing the blessing.
The Chasm Stadium was truly a sight to behold. The structure had been split in two by a great quake centuries earlier, but it still stood, the two haves standing on either side of the chasm. On the north side of the Stadium, the candidates for King and Queenship had gathered, over 1000 in number. On the south, the Stadium was reserved for the spectators, mostly people from the Kingdoms of War and Wealth.
In a box at the top of the Stadium, an announcer sat, speaking into a horn."Welcome to the Runner's Games, and the Chasm Stadium!" The aye-aye's voice was greatly magnified by the horn, and could be heard clearly from three leagues away. "Today we have the first event of the Games to decide who will be the next King or Queen of Runners! That event, as per tradition, is the Leap!" The crowd let out a great cheer. "The rules are simple, candidates! Those who make it across the Chasm in a single bound shall move to the next challenge! And, as always, the Kingdom of Runners has made special allowances for the crippled candidates."
As the announcer said the last part, a one-legged boy on the northern side of the Chasm tapped the ground with his metal and rubber leg; designed by the Kingdom of Mystery, built by the Kingdom of Clay, and enchanted by the Kingdom of Fire. The boy was called Rook; in his language, that meant "incomplete".
The Kingdom of Mystery's tests were nowhere near as spectacular; in all the College-Cities, thousands of students withdrew into their houses, and a test was delivered by courier. Each participant received a randomized copy of the Test of Kings, which covered all subjects known to the Kingdom of Mysteries, with the exception of magical theory; that was to be taught in the Kingdom of Fire.
Let me start out by sayin' this: I fuckin' love my job. Day in and day out, all we fucking do is handle blood. Blood, blood everywhere. Animal blood, human blood, menstrual blood, placental blood, infected blood, sterilized blood, fuck, even blue blood! I think it's, like, an octopus or something that makes blood that color. It's like we're god-damn vampires, and I love it. Plus, it pays well. Supports my kids, ya know? And the missus.
We ain't a blood bank, and we ain't a lab neither. We're a brewery, or a winery, actually. Know, I know what yer thinkin': blood from wine? That's fuckin' gross. Well, you don't know what your talking about until you've had a bottle of 120 year old blood wine, served in a crystal glass. This ain't moonshine, brothers, and besides, it's nothing new. The Catholics have been drinking the blood of Christ for fucking centuries, but they pussy out and use grape wine instead. Pussy religious fucks.
The lowest quality stuff is things you get with diseases; you have to cook 'em so much in the tanks that they just taste burnt when you make them into wine. The best kind of blood comes from crazy people. We have to go through a lot to get the blood of crazy-ass mother fuckers from asylums and stuff, and it's usually not worth the effort. Let me tell you about the one time Keith and I went to this nuthouse…
It was this little mental ward just outside of Northwitch; nothing big. A few schizos, a few suicidal nutjobs, and the big prize, the Northwitch Neuterer. She was called that because she killed men by goin' down on them, and bitin' off their nuts with her fuckin' teeth. Fuckin' psycho bitch. Anyway. We went there disguised as lawyers from some fancy law agency; Keith did all the talkin', as he can talk polite-like.
After we got past the receptionist, we just had to drug the Northwitch Bitch and throw her in the back of the van. Threw her out a window to get her to the driveway; nearly killed her. Glad we didn't. She made a good vintage.
'course, the older the blood, the better it is. Blood don't age in a bottle, though, and putting in a barrel just soaks up all the good parts. To have a good supply of blood wine, you gots t'keep the fuckers you want to harvest it from alive. Come with me to the back.
This here's what we call the vineyard. May not be as glorious as Napa Valley, but god damn if it ain't effective. Oh, don't look like that, you little pussy; all of them are god-damn animals. Well, sure, there are some people here too, but even they're animals! Like, look at that bitch, right there; yeah, that old one. Her name's Debbie. Say hi, Debbie. She sold her fukkin' family during World War II just so she wouldn't get sent to the camps; converted her religion, too. Fuckin' cold-hearted bitch. She's 109 years old in three weeks.
How do we keep 'em alive so long? Simple. We pump 'em full of formaldehyde and a special tonic made by my uncle Joe. Secret recipe, 'course. You'll learn how to make it if you ever get a promotion. Only bad thing about the tonic is that it don't stop aging, just makes 'em live longer. We end up with wrinkly sons of bitches hanging from the ceiling.
Follow me a bit further back; and put on that damn mask. It's gonna stink back here.
I'd like you to meet someone. This is the man we call the Doctor. Ugly son of a bitch, ain't he? Over 150 years old, this fucker is. Maybe 200; old as the winery, at any rate. Oldest vintage still alive; we imported him from England. Here, have a glass; he don't stink too bad until we get right up next to him.
Good, ain't it? Now put your mask back on before you keel over. Anyway, the Doctor's an ugly son of a bitch, but he makes the best damn blood wine there is, you don't even have to distill it. Why? Because he's fuckin' crazy. He talks all the time about how women are the devil and need to be cleansed and all such bullshit. And guess how he cleansed them? With a fucking knife. Fuckin' psycho.
Oh, and whatever you hear, this guy ain't who he says he is. He ain't famous, he ain't worshiped, and he sure as hell ain't a doctor no more. Oh, and policy says we have to have their real name posted just in case he croaks so we can give him a proper burial. I'll tell you his name, but don't call him that.
It's Francis Tumblety. Whatever you may hear, his name does not start with a fuckin' J. Start calling him any name that starts with a J, and you get fuckin' fired. Capiche?
Good. Report for work tomorrow no later than 9:00. You'll start by cleaning up the shit and feeding the vintages.
Once upon a time, there were two great Beasts of Greed. Not dragons, not gryphons, not cloud-tigers, but Beasts; their size was immeasurable, and some say they encompassed the world twice over. One Beast hoarded all the riches in the world to itself, and refused to let it go, saying that the riches were dangerous and should be kept away from the world. The other Beast squandered its wealth, using it to petty ends such as war and murder. The two Beasts were forever in conflict, and it was said that the squandering one was born of the hoarder.
The group formerly known as The Association of Entities that Never Did Exist, or TAENDE, had been wandering the Ways for at least seven days now, looking for a way, any way, into the Library. Now that they actually had achieved existence and lived in a narrative, they knew that they were immune from harm from any Neverwere attempting to attack them. Some were less happy about this development than others.
"What's the point in existing if you barely do it?" Asked the incidental character. "I only got two lines in the last narrative, and I don't even have a gender yet!"
"Well, you've got the first bit of dialog in this piece, so there's that" said Teleos, son of Hermes. "That obviously means you'll have characterization here. Why else would the author give you the first line?"
"Let's just hope he (or she) is competent," grumbled Ivory. "The work I was almost in had almost zero characterization, a paper-thin plot that was almost like a kudzu vine, and an odd obsession with women's feet being mutilated." She shivered. "I almost had to walk across broken glass and barbed wire barefoot…"
"I don't care if he's competent as long as they give me a damn gender!" Snapped back the incidental character, furrowing her brow. "Oh, hey, there it is. And I have a brow, so I at least have a face!." Her attitude improved considerably after that.
"I'm glad she's happy," muttered unnamed character #2 sullenly. It just occurred to me that I have at least there unnamed characters in this narrative-
"What about me?" asked the Unnamed Child. "Unnamed Child" is still a name, sweetie. Sorry.
Anyway. I have three unnamed characters in this narrative, and I shall now name them. You, #2, I shall call "Scrappy". "But that's not my name!" It is now. "Oh go delete yourself, author! What do you have against fanfiction?!" Do you want to be retconned, Scrappy? I could easily go back in the last tale and delete you from existence. "…I'll be quiet." I thought so.
"Well, that was a pointless tangent," said Starbuck, stretching his arms. "This author must have a hard-on for metafiction the size of Space Texas."
"You know, it's actually quite bothering me that the author's barely mentioned what we look like, and the audience just has to use their imagination," said the portly unnamed character #1. "I mean, people are probably thinking that Starbuck looks like a stormtrooper when really, he's just a generic space cop. Teleos looks like Hermes with television antenna on his helmet instead of wings. The unnamed child looks like something you would find in a hallmark card, Sokarth looks like a humanoid flame, and the Tentacled Mass…" The Mass screeched. "…is actually a pretty good description." You. Portly man. Your name is now "Mr. X. Position". "How delightful! …wait." Yeah, I went there.
"Well, we have our mandatory exposition fountain established, and I'm not it!" Said the incidental character, wiping her brow. "Arms! I have arms! Or appendages! Excellent!"
Ivory Ebony scratched her two-colored face and sighed. "Starbuck, how much longer do you think it will be until we reach the Library? It's got to be less metafictional in there, right?"
"Maybe," said Starbuck. "I ain't ever been there myself. I nearly saw it once."
"What was it like?"
"Who said that? Credit your dialog!"
"Oh for the love of- now look at what you've done."
"Everyone, quiet for a few minutes."
"Did the Mass just speak?"
"The Mass can't speak."
There was an uncomfortable silence for the next several minutes. Eventually, Starbuck simply said one word: "Big".
"We'll set up camp here for the night!" Said Starbuck. "If this can even be called night… Ivory, you've got first watch, followed by Tel and the Mass. Mr. Position, can you cook?"
"…I don't know. I haven't been given much of a backstory yet. Can I-" You may. "Ah. Very well. In the work I was intended to appear in, I was an sous chef at a very fine restaurant, but I sampled the food a bit to much, hence the weight. Needless to say, the chef got quite angry, and one night, came after me with a carving knife. Some of my blood accidentally fell in the stock for the soup that night, which was remarked upon to be quite delicious; as a result, the chef started murdering several people to improve his soup." Mr. X. Position, Ladies and Gentlemen!
"Hold on, though." Teleos pointed out. "You were remarked on as wearing a 'boiler hat', which isn't actually a type of hat; I think the author meant 'stovepipe' or 'bowler'. The hat doesn't match the profession, ergo, you are not a chef."
Mr. Position, in response, looked himself over. He was wearing a chef's uniform and hat. "…I got retconned. My god."
The incidental character sat down and sullenly wondered why she hadn't been capitalized yet. "Oh, thanks for broadcasting my thoughts to all the characters in this narrative, author!" Ooooh… sorry. Let's give you a name, then. How's… Ashley sound? "Androgynous." Well, so are you, now. Somewhat flat-chested, wearing a modest t-shirt and jeans, medium-length hair… "Not bad! What color?" You have it dyed blue currently. "…why?" You gotta have blue hair!
Back to the actual plotline once again… "Author, could I ask you something?" Teleos spoke up. Certainly, what is it? "Stop interfering with the narrative, and please, stop hanging lampshades on every god damn thing. It's getting old."
The Mass and Sokarth screeched and nodded in agreement respectively. Well, that's three out of nine, what do the rest of you think?
U.C.? "I gotta agree with Tel."
Starbuck? "Seconded. Or fifthed. Whichever."
Oh come on guys. Mr. Position, Scrappy, c'mon, work with me here! Oh, balls, you all agree well, except for you, Scrappy. You don't count.
What about you, Ashley? "I'm greatful for the name and all, but…"
Et tu, Brute? Fine. After this line, straight-up narrative until you want me again. If you want me again.
The Mass started distributing food, which, in fact, was parts of itself; the Mass could shift its tendrils into any material imaginable, including foodstuff, which it passed around to the seven others around it.
"Hold on. Seven?" Starbuck did a headcount. "We lost someone. Shit. Where's Ivory?"
"What's that over there?!" Cried Teleos, aghast. "Oh author help us, what IS that?"
Someone call my name already? Three lines, a new record. What's up? "Ivory's gone! Something took her!" What the- I didn't write that! I didn't even imply it! Someone's screwing with my narrative, dammit! I'll try describing it… It's… a one-eyed purple people eater! A tad cliche, but it should work!
"There's nothing there!" Screamed the Unnamed Child. What? I described it! Shit shit shit! This thing can't be indescribable, because if it is indescribable, that means it's got a description! I… I don't know what to call this thing! I'm sorry! Guys, help me out here, what the hell are you seeing?!
"Where were you!?" Screamed Sokarth. "Sun preserve, it took the Unnamed Child!" What does it look like, you stupid solar entity? There was only silence in response. Sokarth? Sokarth?
…shit.
Scrappy! Mr. Position! Ash! Tel!
…I'm not feeling so good right now.
Ah, developing characters, fresh from nonexistence, no longer Neverwere, but just Were. I shall ensure that they Never-Wiil-Be.
As soon as the last one is named, I strike.
Hiding in the shadows of ambiguity, I pull in the dual-colored one and devour her essence, which is added to mine. She is wonderful, but a tad stale, given that she was to be a princess. Now she will be nothing, nay, less than nothing.
The author tries to describe me using an outdated song lyric. I brush it off, nothing appears in my place. Next one to be consumed is the child, who is, ironically, the eldest among the Weres. She is now a Neverwere again, or to be more accurate, a Never-Will-Be. The Author is busy writing frantically, attempting to alter the narrative in his favor, but already, I have eaten her. A single word he types is minutes here, which soon grows to hours, or perhaps seconds. Time is nothing to one who dwells the Ways.
The gods die next. Television and Tentacles, a perfect combination. Oh, I'd forgotten how good it is to dine on deities.
The plasma-being nearly escapes my grasp, flying around my nothingness. I am all. I am undescribed. I consume him.
The rest are easy prey. The space captain tries to burn me with his pistol, but is taken along with the chef. The derivative one follows soon after.
I leave the newborn for last. She was just fully described and named, and scared. So scared… you can't write that kind of fear. She pleaded for her life, but I showed her no mercy. I devoured her last, and…
And…
…this is wrong. I'm being written. I'm in a narrative. I've been given thought and form and reason… NO!
Yes, you little fuck. I am the author, and I've found you. I may not be able to describe you, but I can write from your viewpoint. And guess what? The story's just shifted from first person to omniscient third person, bitch!
No… please…
And then, IT died and regurgitated all of it's victims, which were never bothered by its kind again.
The. End.
…
Guys? Are you okay?
"Who are you?"
Shit.
A collection of non-sequential pages and page fragments, from a now destroyed alchemical manual, Kingdom of Mystery, Lemuria
Long Live the Brotherhood!3
Please write big enough that we can read, but small enough so it doesn't obscure the text.
Alchemy did not start as the art of potion-making that it is today. Alchemy was, and still is, the art of forcing the universe to give something greater in exchange for taking something of lesser value. In essence, you are trying to negotiate with the universe for something more in exchange for something less, much like trying to get 10 Trous of Copper worth of bread in Tibsom in exchange for only 2 Trous of Brass.
The most basic tenant of alchemy is this: Never let the universe take more than it requires, and always try to negotiate for less than it requires. Do not trade a Trou of Gold for a leather shoe. Likewise, you should never demand too much of the universe for too little. Always find some middle ground that is acceptable to both yourself and whatever aspect of the universe you are doing negotiations with.
The second most basic tenant of alchemy is never to make an alchemical transaction with a higher deity, such as Lemur or Langeleir, or even Kangaroo, the weakest of the higher deities. Local ones are best, including one of the Kingdom of Mystery's Sifaka Scribes, and the so-called Ghost of Shylock that supposedly inhabits the Merchant King's Square in Tibsom.
The White Tigers are tearing up the Kingdom of Grain. Has anyone heard from the Farm-Town of Drisquo? My mother's visiting there…- Oskelo
Drisquo got evacuated last week. Everyone made it out okay, but the town itself burned down. I'm glad your mother is okay.- Ylva
Thank you, Ylva. I owe you for this. -Oskelo
The final tenant of alchemy is to never trade in souls. There are lines that should never be crossed, and this is one of them. Trading in souls will only bring sorrow, and will condemn you to the realm of Ecoi.
I think that the King of Wealth traded his soul to Ecoi for more gold.-Neaw
No, he traded his virginity to the Kingdom of War for more gold.
Yes, we get it, War and Wealth are bedmates. Pick a new joke, funny-man. Or woman. Sign your posts.-Neaw
Elphon read this book while having sex with your mother. The book was more interesting. I'm sure my mother thought the same thing, you cow-licker.-Beell
-est value item that can be traded physically is a star shard. While not truly a fragment of a star, they are, in fact, small astronomical bodies that have crashed to Lemuria
Going up to Tibsom for the Festival of the Merchant King. Anyone want any souvenirs? Give me some Trous of Copper and I'll give buy it for you- Eros
I've always wanted a badge from the Kingdom of Runners.- Siwa
If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd like a piece of pottery from the Kingdom of Clay. -Ylva
I'd like a ring; nothing fancy, just a trinket from the Kingdom of Wealth. It's for someone special-Lyoq
A book from the Kingdom of Mystery; preferably fiction. - Ceell
Chapter 2: History of the Brotherhood and Alchemy
The Brotherhood of Alchemists was started at a time when there was collaboration between the Kingdoms of Fire and Mystery. That may be hard to imagine in this day and age, with the Kingdom of Mystery printing pamphlets such as "The Fire Shall Consume the Books" printed on pamphlets throughout the Kingdom of Mystery. The Kingdom of Fire is no friendlier, having set up guards on the Burnt Bridge to intercept and imprison inhabitants of the Kingdom of Mystery attempting to cross into the Kingdom of Fire.
They don't all hate each other
My best friend is from the Kingdom of Fire!
Fire and Mystery forever!
The Brotherhood's goal was to communicate with the deities that ruled Lemuria and have them help improve the quality of life in this great country [TEXT OBSCURED BY WRITING]
Great job you're doing so far, guys! Jerow, don't write so big. Last warning. -Siwa
Sadly, the modern Brotherhood amounts to nothing more than a small club of alchemical practitioners from the College-City of Yolag in the Kingdom of Mystery. Classical alchemy is becoming an extinct art, due to the ban imposed in all Eight Kingdoms over 300 years ago, when Shylock's Quarter was still extant. It is speculated that Shylock himself had some influence on the law that banned alchemy, as the various spirits that are involved in transactions would be viewed as competition by the merchant-king.
[There is a drawing of a phallus in this margin]
Really fossa'q mature. If I find out who did this, they're getting banned from the book.-Siwa
Modern alchemy is more associated with potion-making such as is performed in the Kingdom of Plagues. In a way the principle is the same; you exchange ingredients for a healing salve, a poison, or a liquor of flight. However, this is not true alchemy as it has no involvement with any of the Lemurian deities or spirits. The old alchemy, as will be discussed in the next chapter, was a perfect blend of magic and knowledge. It set Fire to Mystery and made Fire Mysterious.
Siwa, would you like to visit the Library-City of the Serpent with me? Lyoq
Of course. Meet me there in three days time.-Siwa
Ozrot nearly caught me with this book. He'll have a field day if he finds out there's this much writing in this book. He's an alum of the Brotherhood. He makes an exception for this one book. But he's a professor! It's tradition to ruin the latest edition of this textbook; he turns a blind eye to it so long as we don't go ripping out pages.
The most basic alchemical transaction is water for grain. The best spirit to use for this is Roloq of the Kingdom of Grain, but he may be summoned from any place on the island. To call him, read the verse printed below; it is from the Book of Wheat. Following this, ask politely for a transaction, and offer the water. In exchange, Roloq will give a bushel of grain, or, if preferred, bread or flower. The verse is this:
And Yea, Roloq appeared before the farmer and said "Speak your wish and I shall grant it. You are the humblest of humble, and for that, you do your Kingdom proud. I shall grant you a wish in exchange for water or soil for the crops.
Be warned, Roloq is by no means weak. His whim determines the harvest of entire Farm-Towns in the Kingdom of Grain, and he could easily use your body as fertilizer.
Roloq's a cheap bastard. He didn't give me a seed, and I gave him a gallon of water!-Jerow
Jerow, stop writing so damn big.-Siwa
The water was from the sewer, you swine. Do you want to be smote? If not, then apologize- Roloq
Wait, is that really Roloq? I don't recognize the handwriting… Jerow, when you get this, apologize.- Iquare, Aradi and Olere
I apologize, Reloq. I've left you a bucket of clean water on my doorstep. Please don't smite me.-Jerow
I'm still not entirely sure that was Roloq. -Elphon
Elphon got turned into a wheat bush. He'll be back to normal by the end of the week, I'm sure.- Siwa
{This Book Has Been Slated For Destruction}
{Reason: Vandalism}
Alchemy is an art, and no matter what the Eight Kingdoms say, it will persist. Not the new alchemy, with it's potion-crafting and burners. The old alchemy, the business alchemy as it will now be called, was a pure art, an art of speech and bartering and negotiation with the entities of Lemuria. It was the perfect combination of magic and knowledge, of Fire and Mystery. And it is only through alchemy we can hope to reforge the bond between the two kingdoms.
You've reached the end of this book. Sign your name here, and you're a full member of the Brotherhood.
Arto Qro, Ylva Shak, Eros Tou
Bent Warsh, Roop Seaf, Oengu Aessu
Ceel Engb, Olere Loith, Iquare Loith, Aradi Loith
Overo Quam, Tav Ytiny, Ustl Threl, "Oskelo"
Neaw Tom
Itaiu Threl, Ustl Ougha, "Beell"
Siwa Yero, Lyoq Samf, Jerow Honc
Don't forget to pass this book on to someone who you think may be interested in the Brotherhood. Or, if you're willing to try your luck, Barter with one of the Sifaka scribes for a new copy; this one's getting a little worn.
A Propaganda Pamphlet, Kingdom of Clay, Lemuria.
PEOPLE OF THE KINGDOM OF CLAY
"The Kingdom of Clay sees us as terrorists. Unsurprisng, but unfortunate" Sanquo sighed as he engrave their symbol on the wall of the cafe. "We tried to be peacful…"
"I know." Marit looked into his cup and sighed. "It didn't have to happen like this" His tail twitched agitatedly, and he rubbed his face with a hand. "Lemur damn it, Sanquo. It could have been peaceful."
"What should we do with the bodies?"
"Burn them. They fought valiantly."
This is an Urgent Health Notice from the Great Father-King Sawin The Third
"People of the Kingdom of Clay!" The orator stood on the podium in the middle of the square. The great Kiln, as the city was called, was bustling with activity near the Square of Freedom. "Hear the Tiger's Roar! You have power! You have free will! You may rebel against the the King of Clay! Break the Kilns! Smash the pots! Topple the Colossi!"
The orator was dead before he stepped off the podium, killed by a sniper on Freedom tower.
As you are no doubt aware, the WHITE TIGER COLLECTIVE has released a VIRUS among the population of our fair Kingdom, as well as into the neighboring Kingdom of Grain, the land of our brothers. We have sent several couriers to the Kingdom of Plagues, but as of yet, we have had no response from them, other than the name of the virus: the MADAGASCAN ROT.
"The Kings of Clay and Grain are tyrants! They say their society is equal, but their Kings hold all the power!" Sanquo slammed his fist against the wall. "Their system is corrupt."
"People say the same thing about our Kingdom." The Sifaka brothers walked through the streets of the City of Arts, looking around mournfully at the downtrodden True Lemurs around them. "Just because our kings are athletic does not mean that they are wise as well…"
"Our system may be flawed, but it is better than one having power over all. In our system, everyone gets a chance, even the crippled have a chance to rule! Look around you, Marit!" Sanquo waved an arm at all the lemurs around them. "These are the true people of Lemuria! They deserve better than this! They were truly made in Lemur's image! They deserve better!"
Marit rolld his eyes. "You're being dramatic again, brother. Perhaps you should have worked in the Kingdom of Runners' Theatrical troupe."
"I am trying to make a point…"
The Madagascan Rot is a physical affliction that eventually progresses into a mental one. The rot presents itself first as weeping sores, then as sudden loss of brain function due to rotting cranial matter, and finally, as loss of limbs. This virus is always fatal when contracted, and as a result, suicide centers have been set up in all major cities within the Kingdom of Clay for victims of the Rot.
"Even the people in the Kingdoms of War and Wealth have more power than those in Clay and Grain!" proclaimed a flier dropped from above. The industrious Sifaka leaped across the rooftops, scattering the papers from his bag. "Cast off your bindings! Join the White Tigers and be free! Those who deserve power shall get it!"
Marit knew his story would not end well, but he did not care. He would live on in legends for his bravery, even if he was sent to the kilns, either as a worker or as fuel. It was worth the cause.
The Tiger's roar would be heard.
The makers of terror that spread this virus, the White Tiger Collective are currently under a bounty for 50 Trous of Gold per member Captured or Killed. The White Tiger Collective is an anarchist group from the Kingdom of Runners who wish to convert our fair Kingdom of Clay into a merit-based society like their native Kingdom, rather than the equality we give the citizens today.
"We did not spread the Rot!" Hysterical, the ring-tailed one called from the gallows. "We tried to stop it! The Tigers tried to stop it! Please! Someone! Help! We're innocent!"
"Don't be scared, young one." The sifaka next to him smiled. "White Tiger and Lemur are brothers. They'll take care of us when we've died. Have faith." Looking forward, the Sifaka called out, "Believe what you will! The young one speaks the truth. The White Tigers would never kill so indiscriminately." He looked at the man operating the Gallows. "Do it."
He did. The pipe in the young one's throat ensured he would survive another day; the sifaka had given it to him. The young one hoped that he was happy in the after-times.
They have known connections with the Society of Circles, which attempted to destroy the Kingdom of War's capital; the Waters of Knowledge which attempted to Extinguish the Kingdom of Fire; and the Bookburners4, which attempted to destroy the College-City of Yolag in the Kingdom of Mystery.
"The Tiger's Roar will be heard across both kingdoms, but not in such a manner." The young ring-tailed one wrote furiously from the safety of the Kingdom of Mystery's vast college-city. He sighed, rubbing his muzzle.
"No, no. That's too much." He scraped the ink off of the parchment. "The Tiger's Roar… think…" He closed his eyes and thought.
He thought of those affected by the Rot. He thought of the Kings of Grain and Clay, watching their people suffer while they got fat. He thought of White Tiger, the embodiment of righteous fear, and brother to Lemur, not the enemy. He thought of the sifaka that saved his life; he didn't even know his name. He thought of all these things and more.
And then he began to write.
The White Tiger Collective uses the marking at the bottom of this document to mark territory. Territory by marked by the White Tiger Collective is to be avoided, as are suspected members of the White Tiger Collective. The White Tiger is to be avoided, but never feared. The White Tiger Collective feeds on fear, they worship White Tiger, Dark Deity of Fear and Opponent to Great Lemur. They wish to spread fear across the Kingdoms of Clay and Grain, and using this Fear they will rule us. We will not let them!
"If you can read this, get away from the Kingdom of Clay. Go to Tibsom, in Lanu's Quarter, and ask for Tuadt." The young True Lemur looked up from the scrap of paper, and around the crowded Quarter of Tibsom. He swallowed nervously, pulling at his collar. "By Langelier, what am I doing?" He timidly stepped up to the stall marked with the odd sigil, and cleared his throat politely at the Sifaka running it. "Sir? I'm looking for Tuadt."
The Sifaka smiled, and ushered the young Lemur into the back of the stall. There, several young men and women- some he even recognized as his friends!- were gathered in the back, playing a game of Eight Gods. A ring-tailed one with a scarred muzzle looked up at the True Lemur.
"The Collective welcomes you, initiate."
THE WHITE TIGER COLLECTIVE'S SYMBOL:
व्याघ्
KNOW IT. AVOID IT. DO NOT FEAR IT.
Know us. Embrace us. Let them feel fear for you. व्याघ्- Inscribed on the Castle of Clay's front gate, City of Colossi, Kingdom of Clay