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Post by Matteo ((Taed)) on Feb 18, 2015 0:00:10 GMT -5
Genre: Folklore
Secret Ingredient: Rebirth
Due Date: 12:01 AM EST Wednesday, February 25, 2015
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Inkdrinker
Scribe
Sepulcher: a stage enlived by ghosts.
Posts: 908
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Post by Inkdrinker on Feb 24, 2015 18:57:08 GMT -5
Long, long ago, before you or me, when the world was young, nothing more than a barren plain of rock, lacking man, beast, or name, there was Him. The infinite light, the Creator. Where he walked, grass grew and flowers bloomed and he whispered to each their name.
He wandered for a time, painting the details into the world of his making. He called down tremendous streams from the mountains, coalescing into the rivers of the world and eventually flowing from vast estuaries to fill the very oceans.
Then he sowed the seeds of life, saplings sprouting into lavish forests in his wake. Where he pointed, mountains rose and canyons sunk. When he deemed the landscape perfect, he filled the world with animals, from moth to boar, to share the beauty and bounty of his creation.
Tired from his work, he came to rest by a small but peaceful pond. Dragonflies of brilliant blue-green darted to and fro over the water's surface while little silvery carp fluttered about below. The animals greeted him fondly and he smiled, but soon waved them away, back to their business.
The Creator gazed restfully into the pond, making eye contact with his reflection. He gestured for his reflection to join him at his side, on the edge of the pond. The Creator's reflection nodded dutifully and smiled, stepping out of the pond and sitting cross-legged beside his progenitor.
“You are my reflection,” said the Creator, “and I must bestow upon you a name. You are the reflection of all my infinite light, of my unending power and my ceaseless energy. I name you Sun. Sun, rise and meet your brother.”
Sun got to his feet, “Thank you father, I will make you proud.” The Creator smiled at his child and turned to face his own shadow.
“You are my shadow,” said the Creator, “and I must bestow upon you a name. You are the shadow of my infinite will, of my undying passion and my boundless creativity. I name you Moon. Moon, rise and meet your brother.”
“Thank you father,” said Moon, standing up. “I will make you proud.” The two brothers, reflection and shadow, Sun and Moon, locked eyes, each sizing the other up. Twin imitations of perfection.
“The task will take the two of you,” said the Creator. “You must work together in my stead, with the powers I have infused within you. Sun, you are the energy, the raw potential of being. Moon, you are precision, the tool that must shape that energy into formation. This world is yours,” he gestured broadly, “but it is also theirs. Do not forget that.”
“We will remember, father.” The brothers spoke in solemn unison.
“You will,” said the Creator, “you must.” Then he was gone, leaving the pair of them alone, together.
A reflection is a curious thing by itself, as is a shadow, out of the context of source. They took solace as a pair of newborn twins, each knowing the other was experiencing the same existential shock of individuality.
Before long, Moon grew restless, the idleness of his hands almost painful. The urge to create swelled within his chest. He took his brother by the hand, absorbing some of the Creator's light-energy that dwelled within him. Moon refracted it inside himself, directing it outwards into whatever shape he willed of it. Moon forced the energy into a tight beam, focusing it at a young oak tree nearby, channeling into it the hope of growth. Instead of growing or rejuvenating the oak caught fire. Their first creation: destruction.
Over time, the brothers honed their skills: Sun learned to better control the flow of his energy and Moon dreamed of grander and more intricate designs to shape it into, now more confident in his precision. As their skill grew, so too did their ambition.
Not satisfied with another mere hairy beast, Moon crafted elegant antlers. Instead of another drab avian creation, they gifted their birds' plumage with brilliant displays of color. When even such things as hue-shifting lizards and tusked behemoths bored them, they began to dream bigger, beyond the aesthetic.
“I've been thinking,” said Moon, lounging next to his brother underneath a peach tree.
“As have I,” said Sun, biting into the honey flesh of the tree's fruit.
“Do we share the same thoughts?”
“Consciousness?”
“Exactly.”
“I'm not sure. Could we know, either way?” Sun cast the peach pit back into the soil, to grow anew.
“Perhaps not. I will share my thoughts, then. Father created us, left us alone. But maybe we don't have to be alone much longer. Could we not create others, as father created us?” Moon sounded dangerously excited about this, like he'd been brewing, hoarding this information for a long time.
“You mean to say--”
“I do.”
“Would father approve?”
“Does it matter?”
Stunned, turbulent silence.
The Creator sat cross-legged and peaceful in the center of an impossibly vast cavern. He opened his mouth to speak to no one.
“You,” he bellowed, his voice reverberating throughout the cavern, “you are my echo. And I must bestow upon you a name. You are the echo of everything I have left to give. I name you what you are: Echo.”
“Thank you, father.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, sourceless and ever-present. Her voice was as quiet and soft as a whisper and as loud and ferocious as a battle cry. Silken thunder.
“You are lord of all things forgotten, patron of hidden things and protector of secrets. You have power over what your brothers do not. You are sovereign over places untouched by Sun or Moon. Do you understand?”
“I know my place.”
The Creator smiled and was gone.
“Should they not build citadels in our honor?” said Sun, standing with his brother atop a vast mesa of red rock.
“Perhaps,” said Moon, “perhaps not.”
Far below, men and women labored with basic tools. They stripped rock from where they found it, reshaped it into clean, measured slices, and built buildings for all purposes, large and small. They were growing fast, this tribe, faster than either brother had anticipated.
“A small token of recognition, at least. A fond glance at their makers every once in a while.” Sun kicked up a small cloud of dust.
“They should not know of us.” Moon looked on, somewhat wistfully, as the dust fell slowly through the air until it settled once more.
“What?” Sun was pacing back and forth, soothing his energy with motion. Moon was silent, still. Great birds circled overhead, but they did not crow or call, not daring to break the silence. Sun was not so gracious. “You would have them live in ignorance? Unknowing of the hands that made them? The very minds that shaped them?”
Moon simply smiled, but it was a cruel, cold smile. His words carried the same tone. “My hands. It was my hands that shaped them. My mind that molded them. You are nothing but the furnace, brother. My forge.”
“You are nothing without me!” Sun shouted, spittle-throwing and furious. He gripped Moon's left shoulder in his dazzling fist, the light of his body somehow brighter than before. “I am power incarnate! You are nothing but a glorified focusing lens for my light.”
A forge and a lens, a reflection and a shadow. Moon pushed his brother away, never revealing any signs of anger. Malice and bitterness, perhaps, but never anger. Time stood still, just for a moment, the feuding twins staring at each other with resentment in their eyes. Then they turned away from each other, for the moment and for all time.
Echo flowed through the halls of her home like water, effortless and graceful. Citizens were always glad for her approach, treating her presence as a good omen and an honor, if they recognized her at all. She listened to their grievances and their hopes and took them to heart.
They never asked for much. The little crawly one was a bit hungry today and would like very much to stumble upon some mushrooms. The skittering one wanted her to bless the home it had made. The tunneling one just wanted to be left alone, not turned into food by the upright ones, who mostly wanted a good harvest, to avoid having to resort to that. The great big leathery one wanted to see the sky, to fly among the stars.
Echo had never seen the sky, herself. She'd never even been aware of its existence, much less its importance. The tunnels and caverns of her home had always been enough. She decided to question the bat, learn all she could of it. She spoke to the beast as only she could and it told her all it knew and asked, pleaded, for just one more syllable of blissful music.
“Farewell,” she said, “and thank you.” The bat had woven a tale of blue and speckled black, orange and red. It was a diluted copy of a secondhand portrait, but it was still beautiful, filling her with nostalgia for something she never knew. She would find it, some way.
In all her time Echo had never found a passage that lead to the surface, but she had never looked before, either. It had to be there somewhere, the bat knew another bat who had been there, after all. Unless it was just fantasy: the dream-stuff of bats.
Sun stood shining, clad in armor, at the head of his army. Moon stood alone. Golden wheat was flattened under foot by the march of Sun's soldiers as they shifted into formation. Swords and shields, polished to a mirror shine, at the ready. Moon was unarmed and unassuming in a patch of unnatural shade.
“Glorious, is it not?” said Sun, smiling at his brother from in front of his blinding army. “I have taught them such things, such knowledge.” It had been so long since either brother had seen the other but the spite had not drained from their eyes. “With my help they have thrived.”
Moon did not move or even shift his weight. Frozen, he extended his influence, the shade creeping forward at an alarming rate. “I don't need you anymore, brother. I have found other means.” He waved his hand and the entire valley fell into darkness.
“As have I. Do not be afeared, men! He has no true power within him!” Sun was the only source of light, now, reflecting again and again off the armor of his troops. He raised his right hand high. “Hold fast!”
Moon slowly stepped forward, towards Sun and his men. They cast chaotic shadows in his brother's light and Moon called them to him. They swarmed him, swirling around his form like blackest robes. Sun shot bolts of energy from his hand into the void approaching him, with little to no visible effect. “Charge!” bellowed Sun.
Echo surveyed the surface world, drifting on foul winds and coursing through toxic rivers. It was a horrific place, burned to a crisp and shrouded in darkness. What wasn't dead was dying and what wasn't dying was something else entirely. A hostile place. The corpse of a world. She sought out its secrets and in seeking found its survivors. She spoke to entire continents at a time, a voice in every ear that would listen.
“Your world is dead, do not cling to it, waiting for the carrion of death to arrive. Come, take refuge in my realm, flee freely downwards. Let your people, your culture, your very world be reborn anew under the remains of the old.”
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Post by J.O.N ((Dragonwing)) on Feb 26, 2015 7:28:32 GMT -5
Blasting through the entrance of the estate, I caught a glimpse of the high security wall and its laser protecting field. Money was not spared in the protection of the Viceroys residence. It was also clear that security was high in the small affluent part of the city. Well-armed security members patrolled the well paved roads and manicured parkways around the grand mansions owned by company executives and colonial families. It was a stark juxtaposition once we exited the guarded rich district.
Long before we arrived here; the swamps were home to the Yatatinbi people, or as we affectionately called them, the Swampmen. Historically we gained control of their land through treaties and buying the land from the hundred or so tribes that used to own the few dry patches of soil. For the most part we were only supposed to exploit the bits we controlled, but as we brought disease to the Swampmen, their number died out and we were able to encroach further and further inland. Eventually we had no need for treaties and begun to subjugate the people into our Empire.
Times were changing however, which is why I was blasting through the streets of Bakalikta in an armoured convoy. I was sent by the Colonial Office after the Viceroy sent back concerns of a native uprising within the colony. Normally I would be bemoaning the fact I had to leave the blissfully climate controlled Home Office in the Capital, but it was currently on fire. Heretics had a way of making everything worse.
Immediately we went from marble buildings and green lawns and into shanty towns and slums. The few brick and mortar buildings left standing were overrun by tiny shacks, built over and inside of each other. Ad hoc attempts at electrical wiring spanned the small gaps between these multistorey disasters in architecture. Tearing down the dirt road, I caught glimpses of the grey skinned natives either hawking their wares from roughly built stalls beside the road, or walking up and down them looking for the cheapest deal they could get.
It struck me how stark the differences were between the colonial families and natives. Nowhere could I look without my vision being assaulted by some barbaric practise, such as the open sewers that ran beside the road, or the unclean and chaotic Swampmen who inhabited this cesspool. I cursed my superior for sending me here. I had not known how bad this colony was in comparison to the others held by the Empire.
Our truck made a hard turn onto a main road; the few other vehicles on the road had to quickly swerve out of our way. Moving from the home residences we quickly entered the smog and dust filled air of what could be called the city proper. Houses were replaced by a fusion of old colonial brick and mortar buildings; the multi-story glass and steel headquarters of the colonial businesses; and crammed in-between everything else, were shacks made of plasma screens, corrugated iron and electrical wiring. It was one of these dens that my truck pulled up in front of.
Stepping out, I smoothed down my khaki shirt and shorts. Even in my more informal clothing, I could feel the oppressive heat and humidity of the swamps. Shielding my eyes from the blazing sun I marched up to the front of the den, slapping aside the heavy carpet covering the doorway. Before my eyes adjusted to the change in light levels, I felt a rough hand grab my shoulder and ram it up against the iron wall. Through the darkness I could hear a faint thumping of heavy bass reverberating throughout the shack, suggesting it was covering up more than could meet the eye from the outside.
“Name” growled the large and indescribable shadow pinning me against the wall.
“Hayri, Hayri Ramazen. I’m the representative of the Viceroyalty.”
I felt the pressure on my arm ease up, and with a grunt the hulk let me ease past him. His stench filled my nostrils as I allowed him to pull aside the heavy steel door that separated the shack from the pumping techno music. Stepping through, once again my senses were assaulted, this time with loud music and the strobing of lasers and plasma screens everywhere. It was an epileptic’s nightmare.
Long ago these sorts of dens would be filled with the smoke of opiates and stench of burning plants. Now it was sweat, chemicals and the acidic tang of crappy air conditioning units used at their max capacity. Unlike the opiates of old, it was highly advanced virtual reality units that drew in the crowds. Everywhere I looked was a sea of bodies; some writhing in pleasure or fear from whatever theirs units were blasting into their brains. Others lay motionless, either enraptured in their virtual life, or dead.
I felt tugging at my right side. Looking down I saw an incredibly skinny arm pulling at my shirt side. The arm, wrinkled and covered in sores, was attached to small old man. His face was a map of wrinkles; with splotches of what I hoped were birthmarks. He hid what seemed a bald head under a large straw hat with a wide brim. He was dressed in the tattered remains of a pinstripe suit, with a small bag strapped to his hip. Pointing to the bag, he made it clear he wanted money from me.
“I’m here to see The Dreamer!”
I had to shout over the sound of the blaring music, the old man seemed to hear me perfectly. With a grin that revealed two rows of shark teeth, the man pulled me through the pit of human bodies and remains. I stumbled and tried to avoid stepping on anyone, but my guide showed no care. His sandaled feet used the sea of bodies more like a road then an obstacle. The people were so hypnotised by their virtual drug that they didn’t even seem to notice.
Eventually we made our way to the back of the den. Pulling aside a rope that was all that seemed to divide this particular area from the human sea, the man shoved me through before giving me one final grin and hurrying way. Looking around I noticed that this area was furnished with far more opulent items. Rich silk cushions covered the floor, their colours creating a rainbow effect. Tapestries hung from the walls and they seemed to detail tales from the history of the swamp. In the centre of it all was another virtual reality unit.
The Dreamer was the moniker the Swampmen gave their new leader. He was some charlatan that claimed to be the shaman of their gods. One of his many quirks was that you could not get a hold of him without using one of the virtual reality dens that dotted the capital of the colony. Taking the headset and gloves, I put them on. As I lowered the headset, felt my sense get blotted out and be overtaken by the devices own version of them.
I felt a jolt and I was left falling through the air, high above the swamp itself. Falling I tried to orient myself to gain some control. Feeling the air rush past me, buffeting my ears, I mused on how real this unit felt. It had been a great concern for the colony administrators on how the Swampmen were able to smuggle such high quality VR systems in to the capital. If they could get these in, what else were they smuggling.
I wasn’t worried about hitting the ground; I doubted The Dreamer led me all the way here to kill me with a sensory overload. Instead I felt my descent ease up the lower I got to the ground. At the final few feet of my fall I saw a hut begin to form out of the swamps green and brown colour palette. A building made of mud and straw, almost hidden amongst the foliage. My feet touched down in front of the door. Made of rotting wood and with no handle, I pushed it open and stepped inside.
It was barren inside, just dirt for floor and mud for walls. At the centre of the room sat The Dreamer. He was grey skinned like the Swampmen, dressed in the vibrant coloured robes of his people. He appeared old, but since it was just an avatar, that meant nothing. I gave a polite cough and waited for him to respond to my presence.
“I know why you came”
His voice was old and deep, probably to sound wise. I could already tell this foolish rebel leader saw himself as some sort of all-knowing saviour.
“That’s good, this can be brief then. You know what the Empire does to rebels, so if you stand down and turn yourself in, we can spare some of your people.” I decided that diplomacy was wasted on him and it would be better to be intimidating.
“Your cities burn, people suffer and your lands are invaded, yet you still find the spine to threaten an old man?”
I glowered at him and waved my hand in dismissal.
“The fleet of the colony is more than capable of purging this swamp of you Swampmen.”
He didn’t reply, instead he sat in silence for a bit; the sound of the virtual swamp filled the air. Finally he stirred, readjusting the robe he threw back his head and laughed. I glared at him, it was clear he was some mad man.
“Do you know the story of our people? Of this swamp?” He didn’t give me time to reply. “Of course not. To you this is just some slice of land you parasites can exploit and conquer.”
He had begun to rant; I knew it was useless to keep trying to get him to surrender. I turned to leave when the scene before us quickly changed. The mud hut disappeared and we both found ourselves beside some pool of water, the swamp trees rising high around us and the small glen. It seemed The Dreamer had control of the simulation and wasn’t going to let me leave so easily.
“This is the Well of Spirits, a portal where the first gods rose out and walked, flew and crawled amongst us. First was the Serpent. He showed us how to live in the swamp, to bend like its reeds and spread throughout it like the moss.”
As he spoke, a great twisting snake rose up out of the pool. It seemed to be made from the stars that had been reflected on the water surface. Twisting it looked at us before slithering into the undergrowth.
“Next was the Fisher-Bird. She taught us how to catch the fish in the rivers and grow the fruits for our festivals.”
Without a ripple the spirit of a huge bird, its beak long like a fishing bird and its feathers made from the stars just like the snake, ascended from the water. With a mighty flap of its wings it rose up and soared over us.
“Finally, the Spider. From him we learnt to craft tools and create plots to govern our tribes.”
Like the snake and bird, the spider pulled itself out of the pool, gleaming from its body of stars, before crawling off in to the trees. Turning I looked back at The Dreamer.
“Wonderful story, but if you aren’t saying anything about the present day matters, I must be going. I don’t want to be caught in the bombing campaign we begin.” I drawled, annoyed I had been dragged into some silly heathen creation myth.
“We lived in harmony with this swamp until you devils arrived, carrying a flame that burnt all and let nothing grow. You burned away the physical forms of the Serpent, Fisher-Bird and Spider, leaving their spirits to float unbound from their people.”
I barked a laugh.
“The Eternal Flame doesn’t care for the silly superstition of you Swamp dwellers. It scorched the armies of the God-emperor of the Tianshen.”
The Dreamer looked at me, this time his eyes smouldering with hatred, his body shaking. His voice spoke with an anger that caused me to wipe the smile from my face. I remembered that I was still his hostage. Around me the air seemed to feel electrified and I worried he was preparing to fry my brain.
“Their spirit remains, and today I shall be the one to give them a form with which they can help us reclaim our homeland. Stand devil and witness the fall of your beloved colony!”
Raising his arms, I saw the simulation warp around him, a growing image of code and circuitry expanding into the scene around us. When it finally hit the water it spread across it, replacing the reflected stars. In response the waters seethed and bubbled with a violent anger, from the water arose the three spirit animals once again. Instead of stars however, they flashed with the code of the virtual reality program. They exploded up into the sky and I felt a tug before we were pulled after them.
The new scene was one of us hovering above the vast oil fields of the Swamp delta. Huge hulking derricks plied the soil for its oils and mines busted open the earth for rare earths. The mining waste and occasional broken pipeline pumped pollution in to the mouth of the great rivers. Very little survived in this area of the swamp. However it made the colony incredibly rich.
“Cast your gaze on the prize of your precious colony; open sores, that you let ooze. Watch the Serpent take back what is ours!”
I watched as the serpent program descended down into the complexes of the oil wells and mines. As soon as it was amongst them I saw the problems arise immediately. Oil wells exploded into great plumes of fire and the mines seemed to become erratic, the automatons crashing and tearing them apart. Within minutes alarms were blazing as people fled from the chaos that had begun. Meanwhile nanites had become released; pouring into the waters they began to scrub them clean.
At first I dismissed the scene; anyone could show something like this with access to a VR. Yet, something was wrong; it didn’t feel like we were in the VR any more.
“Correct, we are hijacking the video feed of a surveillance drone.”
I snapped my attention to The Dreamer.
“You think that the rebellion would start with guns in the street? How naive, I released our gods into the system, giving their ghosts a means to enact our revenge. Shall we watch the Fisher-Bird’s triumph?”
Before I could respond, I felt a dramatic shift and suddenly we were hovering over the ocean. Below us was the fleet of the colony. Composed of vast sea fortresses that housed their own fleets of attack drones and personal armies, the carriers enforced the Empires will. They were flanked by battleships equipped with doom bringing railguns. There was no way some VR simulation cooked up by Swampmen could show such detail of our fleet, it appeared what The Dreamer claimed was true. I watched in horror as the large bird flew down in to the ships.
Just like with the snake, the bird created a terrifying scene of destruction within minutes. As it reached the ships, it dove down and gained control of the drones. As one they rose up off the decks in a great swarm. I saw crew members scramble in panic, but before they could react, the drones opened a volley of hellfire missiles, creating massive explosions and shredding the ships. Not to miss out, the battleships railguns began firing on each other. A symphony of death and destruction that left the fleet ruined.
Once again The Dreamer was laughing at the scene before us. Turning to me he gestured back towards the capital of the colony.
“Let us return home, and witness the final death blow. I think you will want to witness this one in person.”
I felt my mind dragged back, flying over the swamp at great speed. With a crack of light and sound I was forced back into my body. The first sense to return was touch, and I immediately felt great pain in my muscles and bones. With agonising effort I ripped myself free from the headset and gloves. Stumbling to my feet, I began to struggle through the mass of bodies around me. I failed to notice that the former addicts of the den were now awake and watching me.
Breaking through the front of the shack, I tripped and fell out into the street. Finally my eye sight and sense of smell was returning, my ears ceasing their ringing. Smock chocked my airways, the smell of blood, gun smoke and fire filling my nostrils. The sounds of screaming and gunfire filled my ears. Looking up from the ground I saw struggling security personal fighting the Swampmen rebels in a desperate battle.
It was clear that the guard’s guns and machinery was failing them; even in the cases of the guns on the tanks, turning against them. Twisting my head, I looked up at the plasma screens dotted along the street. The few that were not burning, caught in the fires of the city, showed The Dreamer; dressed in the robe as before, laughing. The edges of the screen were filling with spiders. More screams reached my ears, and looking up, I managed to catch a massive explosion rise up out of the rich estates somewhere in the distant.
I could barely get to my knees when I felt a presence behind me. Turning I saw the grinning old man that met me in the shack. In his hand was a tablet; on its screen were the fangs of a spider. In his other hand was a dagger. I just watched as he approached me, incapable of resisting my fate. Damn heathens. |
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Post by Matteo ((Taed)) on Mar 5, 2015 19:29:09 GMT -5
Ink:
Good piece, and I liked the set-up of the myth itself, there was creativity in there, and the way that the creator did these symbolic, almost arbitrary things was bang-on for the folklore tone. However, the piece definitely lacked the enduring imagery that your earlier entries benefited from. There wasn't a lot here that will stick in my head.
There were also some loose threads, thematically speaking. Like how Echo pines after the sky, then never gets to see it. It's almost like a subplot that gets left hanging. There's also something ... it's just out of reach, something to do with the basic nature of these simulacra. Reflections, shadows, and echoes are all copies defined by their relationship to an original. But then shadow and reflection both go against their natures by wanting to create, while echo is content to listen .... I don't know, exactly, but there's something cool there, and it didn't get a full shake.
I also think that, as a myth that relates to actual events, it didn't have quite enough truth. In your setting, the surface got nuked all to hell, yeah? The sun/moon conflict, while interesting, maybe didn't contain enough of a role for mankind. Or is the backstory that the surface was hit with an asteroid or something? If that's the case then you're safe.
Very specific quibble, but I feel like you lost a bit of the mythic tone here. It's a bit too instructional.
Dragon:
Proof. Read. I know you know how apostrophes work.
You were a little loose with the topic, particularly the rebirth component. I see the implication is that the Swampmen are throwing off the shackles of oppression and rising anew, but the way it's handled still seems more like rebellion than rebirth. I suppose the fact that their creator myth entities were involved saves you, although then we have to deal with the fact that commitment to folklore was a tad incidental.
Is this supposed to be connected to the heretics in the capitol in any way? If not, the Empire is really quite inept when it comes to controlling their technology. It seems like anyone with the inclination can hijack their armament with impunity. If you wanted to embrace that, it might be cool to discuss the theme of an oppressive regime existing in an increasingly populist and decentralized technological landscape.
Why didn't "a representative of the Viceroyalty" have security?
You do word repetition a lot. It's not fatal, but it is noticeable. Like here, you could have said his arm was "withered," and the whole thing reads better.
Here's another one that was particularly bad; almost a tautology. Fisher-Bird is a huge bird with the long beak of a fishing bird.
Very cool image, and perfectly appropriate for your setting.
Winner: Ink
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