Silence's Edge
I haven't updated in a while. So here's a pseudo post of sorts. Fanfiction. Or something of the like. I'll post something more substantial sometime. Maybe.
This is actually spoiler free, so anyone who's read Immortal Prince can read it without fear. I'm surprised I managed to get this in a post.
The idea was to write a story for all the cards in the Tarot. There's 78 cards.
I passed and decided to do a modified Tarot deck. Of sorts, down to 21 and a rodent.
Arryl the Sorceress
I awake, nauseous and in pain. I do not know what is causing the pain, but my stomach and innards clench and tighten.
Then something lessens the pain, and I sigh in relief. I open my eyes to see a human face- female and fair in features and color. There is a gentle serenity to her bearing, a kindness that calms me even as I realize the truth of her.
“Hush now.” She places a cool cloth on my head. “It’s fine now.”
I try to speak, but my lips are cracked and my throat too dry. I cough and I feel a wave of heat spasm through my body. I cannot move my arms or my legs, and the nausea and pain returns.
“I’ve done what I can to lessen the pain but…” There is an infinite sadness in her eyes. Tender and caring, as if they would stand for seeing any life extinguished. “Rest now.”
I nod, and I close my eyes and sleep.
The woman closes the eyes of the amphibian gently, and kneels down by the bed and softly, she cries.
Syrolee, Empress of the Five Realms
She hated them all, every single misbegotten one of them.
She hated them even more on the simple fact that she could never have what they had. The ability to wield the Tide.
Wretched Tide Lords. But at the least, she had her children who would on occasion, do as asked.
It was like treading water, carefully. She couldn’t afford to offend them, save for Elyssa, but she couldn’t afford to let the gain a upper hand against her either.
It was a careful balance.
Krydence the Judge
He had no idea why they called him the Judge. It was, he supposed, his ability to make a fair minded choice in the heat of the moment. Like such, when his wife had confronted him about his affair with the dark, pretty serving girl at the palace.
She had told him to get rid of her. He would, in good course, but only after he had his fun. Afterwards, they had clambered out and he told her he would make her immortal.
Not that he actually intended to. The Eternal Flame would very much likely just burn her to death and he would be rid of this problem.
“Where are we going?” Medwen asked.
“To eternity, dear.” He answered. He led her to the room and the green flames. In a hurry, he stuck his hand in the flames and very quickly, set her on fire.
She screamed and kept screaming as he left her there to die.
A job well done.
Lukys the Scholar
He is outside and looks at the stars again.
He does not suppose that any of those inside quite realizes why he looks at the stars with such fondness and practices his lost art of astrology still.
He might be the only one who does so still, and the thought saddens him.
But then the rat on his shoulder nudges him gently, and he smiles at something absurd.
He is smiles easily and he is amused by what that smile hides.
Tryan the Devil
He could feel the Tide welling up around the new immortal. Tryan wasn’t sure if he was doing it on purpose, but he could warrant a guess that he was instinctively drawing upon it.
“Gabriella?” The new immortal was sounding hurt and wounded. He could’ve almost laughed, then, if not for the fact that there were several very sharp spears in their direction.
“Cayal, what is the meaning of this? You’re not supposed to be here.” The woman’s expression, oddly enough, was more shocked than anything. Almost like she didn’t expect Cayal to be alive and kicking still.
“Sorry, m’lady, but we were just passing through.” Tryan quickly slipped in.
“No, Tryan,” Cayal waved him off, his gaze fixed on the mortal woman. She was a pretty thing- Tryan could see where Cayal wanted her still. “Gabriella- what’s the meaning of this?”
She sniffed. “I’m returning from my marriage to your brother. What are you doing here? You were exiled from Kordona, never to return.”
This could be interesting and fun. The new immortal was a literal hold of power now, about to snap at any moment. Tryan leaned to Cayal and whispered, “She’s looking down on you, lad. Seems she’s got it for your brother now.”
“No…” Cayal shook his head, almost pitifully. “It isn’t like that.”
“Seems a bit like that. She got you exiled, didn’t she?”
“What are you two talking about?” The woman snapped. Insolent mortals, thinking to hold us up like this. Tryan could’ve easily killed them all, but he wouldn’t take away all the fun.
“And aren’t you an immortal now? Tides, Cayal, you’re a Tide Lord! She’s got no right to talk to you like that.” If his guess was right, this immortal didn’t have a single clue of what to do with all that power but to let it out in one rush. “You’re a practical god compared to these insects.”
Cayal looked torn and confused. Perfect. “Gabriella…I’m back.”
She regarded him coolly. “Guards, kill him.”
Then there was a roar as the power stored up in Cayal was let loose.
Cayal the Immortal Prince
“You know something?” Cayal remarked.
“I know several things more than you, I’d wager,” Lukys responded, studying a rock curiously. “Like how I am your father.”
“Beyond that, Lukys.” The man had an eye too keen for the absurd.
Lukys threw the rock over the cliff-side, where it was followed by a small explosion. “Well, why aren’t you telling me what you know, old son?”
“Kordona.”
“Your homeland that your blew up?” He flicked another rock into the air, where it burst into pieces. “I’d warrant that I’ve figured out how to split a particle.”
“Aye. I’ve been thinking.”
“Always a dangerous pastime.”
“Maybe we need something to anchor onto. Maybe we need a home or something or someone to hold on to, through the passage of time. I don’t think we were meant to be immortal, Lukys. Our minds weren’t made to be like this, so lost and apart from humanity. Tides, look at the rest of the bunch and how they’ve turned out.” Cayal fell silent. “I just wonder what it would’ve been like if I had Kordona still.”
Lukys didn’t say anything.
“Where is your home, Lukys? You never told me.”
The dark man smiled. “Of course I did.”
Cayal looked confused.
Lukys pointed up at the stars in the sky “One of those.”
“Are you ever serious?”
“Of course I am. How do you feel about joining Kentravyon’s army?”
Rance the Hangman
Rance was a man of little words and even less laughter.
It wasn’t because he didn’t find anything funny. He might’ve, but he honestly couldn’t find the time and place in his heart to care. Much more about anything than his general and continued existence.
Rance simply didn’t care.
There was one lesson he had learned from eternity, and that was that it was generally much easier to not care. Apathy, he had said, was the balm of the soul.
So, when his sister and his brother approached him over a squabble or argument of what to do about a sect of villagers, Rance shrugged and rode out to make them stop bickering.
Rance didn’t like the noise.
The next morning, Elyssa and Tryan had settled on what to do and went to the village to find Rance hanging up the last child.
He had hung every one in the village.
He felt nothing, and he felt fine.
Jaxyn the Lord of Temperance
Jaxyn hated his title and drank his ale. Lord of Temperance, indeed. Pity he couldn’t get drunk.
He honestly had no idea how that bastard Cayal had managed to live up to his threat and carry it out so well. And apparently, by all semblances, establish a firm church following in one of the continents. He couldn’t remember which one. He got up to leave the bar, and paid his bill.
Outside there was a monk dressed in purple, and preaching of how one must not imbibe in drinking or pleasure as Jaxyn, the Lord of Temperance declared.
He hated Cayal.
Brynden the Lord of Reckoning
The Lord speaks, and we hear his rules.
We shall not be prideful in our manners. Such is a path to sin and away from the righteous Path.
We shall not seek material wealth, for desire is the cause of suffering.
We shall recognize that suffering is caused by desire and seek to abolish such a thing.
We shall discipline our minds and bodies to endure enlightenment.
We shall remember injuries to ourselves, not for vanity, but to ensure justice is met.
Elyssa the Immortal Maiden
If you asked her of her title, she would weep and perhaps invite you to bed with her. If you were unlucky, she would kill you then and there. It didn’t quite matter either way.
You were dead if you mentioned such a thing to her, generally.
The young boy (perhaps a man, rather) found out to his affront and shock that night. She invited him, a handsome fellow but of low birth, to come with her. She was the Empresses’ daughter and ugly as sin, but he did not care and was a fool.
Reputation is everything, they say.
So he came to her that night, and she brought him to her bed and they began to make love. But then she began to scream, and he could not understand (or wrap his mind around why she told him her title) and he thrust harder and harder and she screamed and wailed and wept and he for the life of him did not understand.
He did not understand when she broke his neck in pain.
She wept afterwards, but for what, no one was sure.
Diala the Minion Maker
She stretches, and men desire her.
She exists for that desire. She is the heady perfume that seduces us. She is the bitch on heat that draws us on. She is lust and desire and sexuality. She is sensual and seductive and voluptuous and the fire that stirs us. She is honey and her touch is scorching and she is relief in the dark places.
She is the Minion Maker, for men are hers.
Kinta the Charioteer
“In your legends and myths, we’re better than you.” She said, toying with her wet hair. “You’re a historian, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said carefully. “There are legends like that.”
“Your legends say that we’re gods and perfect beings. That we either suffer from the cruel hand of fate or that we are diametrically opposed to one another in perfection. We’re you, but we’re better. We don’t die, we don’t age, and we command the very elements. We have the wisdom of the ages to guide us, and we find love that can withstand such trials. We’re beautiful and complete and walking works of art.”
I say nothing. It is hot in the bath.
“But you know the truth? The truth is that we’re not perfect. We’re you, all the same, with the same flaws and mistakes and fears. The only difference? We don’t have to worry about dying, and we have all the time in the world. We’re you with a million years to sit and reflect on our life and all the horrible things we’ve done. We’re you without the ability to forget or sleep. I can’t even remember what it was like to dream.”
“We’re you, but we’re no better. Not really.”
I look to her, and it looks like she is crying. But the water is hot, so I cannot tell.
Lyna the Betrayer
Lyna was a whore and she was not afraid to admit such.
She had been a whore prior to her ascension, but there were several lessons that she had taken with her from her previous life. One such skill was how to manipulate men and ply her trade well.
She knew how to light a fire and passion in a man, and draw him onward. There were only a few as well versed as her in the art of seduction, such as Cayal. But her victim was hapless before her- Lyna had taunted and lured him on inexhaustibly, drawing his passion and lust out to a paramount peak. But he was the governor of the town and thus, in a position of power.
All for this night. He was rough, this one, and grabbed ineffectually at her dress. She moaned to encourage him onward, and helped him a bit with undoing her dress.
Lyna was starting to get impatient with this whole farce. But in the end, it would pay off. She pulled his shirt off and he moaned her name.
Honestly, where was he?
She started to present a little resistance to his advance, but it only worked him further. Good. She was pressed against the wall and her legs around his.
There- at the range of her hearing, she heard footsteps. The governor moved down, violently ripping her dress. She allowed herself a small smile- this was going better than planned. She started to increase her resistance, and telling the governor to stop, so that please, she would do anything else. The man was beyond hearing now, though.
All men were the same.
Her husband burst into the room suddenly, and she started to scream. The governor looked confused and her husband furious. There were terse words exchanged, and she screamed for help, that the governor had forced his way into the house and upon her and that she was so thankful.
Her husband bought it all. The governor was dragged off by the guards, and her husband cradled him in her arms to comfort her. She wept, but in her mind, she was pleased. With this, the governor would be executed before the night was out and then that would only leave one man to take up leadership.
Her poor fool of a husband, of course.
Taryx the Manipulator
It was always cold in Jeldia. The harsh winds and colder climate made human settlement almost impossible, save for a few hardy sailors and their families who dared to brave the cold.
It was cold at the bottom of the world, but that was to be expected.
Amid that land of ice and snow, they became a hardy lot- cold and severe as the world about them. One couldn’t blame them for such; it was an unforgiving land.
That was what he liked about it, and the people. The atheistic of ice- it was simple and pure and clean.
So, when he found one of his beloved ice sculptures broken by one of the children, he could only reason that it was justified that he should take his retribution.
Several months later, a ship came to the shore of the village and much to their surprise, could find nothing of the village. Just mounds and mounds of snow and ice.
It was upon further investigation that they found the villagers were underneath the snow.
They had all been frozen over, homes and bodies in their entirety. Their faces were not peaceful; they held expressions of horror. They stood in a silent vigil, ice sculptures.
Medwen the Artisan
The guardsmen had found her along the shoreline one day. She gave her name and told him of her intention to settle down and work as an artisan.
No one knew where she came from, that young girl. She was pretty and dark haired and lived by herself in a cottage on the outskirts of town. She made a living by making all sorts of pottery, which she was rather skilled at. She was by all reports, single.
It was not long till she had a line of suitors lined up for her hand. She turned each and every one down.
The years passed, and people wondered at why she was still so pretty and dark hair and youthful. There were fearful whispers in dark corners, and rumors began.
When the harvest failed and many a child was taken by the frost, they came for her.
The mob took her and strung her up and set fire to the wood and cheered as she burned. Her beautiful pottery lay broken and smashed, and careless feet crushed them. Then, when the fire was finished, they went about their way.
Some of the guards came to bury the remains, but there were none to be found. Just beautiful shards of fragile things.
Maralacye the Seeker
An old witch, they called her.
No one knew who she was or was quite sure how old she was or how long she had been living there. The elders in the village would swear by their bones that their own grandfathers had known of her, and that she was older than the earth itself.
Perhaps it was true. No one knew for sure.
All that was known is that she had been there as long as any memory could stretch and she lived alone. And oh, she mined- how she mined for months and weeks without end, rarely ever emerging from her cottage. But for what, no one knew. No one ever bothered her.
No one that was wise, so the word went in the village. There had been a band of bandits, once, that had tried setting upon her house.
No one saw them again.
The children would wander by with wide eyed curiosity, and the adults would warn them away and give the adobe suspicions glances. On occasion, she would venture out to town and speak to an occasional fellow.
Everyone gave her a wide berth.
She didn’t mind at all. She liked it that way.
Less distractions and noise. Most importantly, more time to keep mining.
Deeper and farther.
Engarhod, Emperor of the Five Realms
His had only one ambition in life and that was to be rich.
That was all, really. A simple desire. Amassing wealth and whatnot.
His desire carried over into eternity as well. And by his own standards, he did a relatively good job at it and managed to snap up quite a bit. But as good things go, his wife had become weighted down by delusions of grandeur and spun up some silly tale for him and her. Something mystical and praise worthy.
Not that he minded as the money poured in.
Ambria the Goodwife
Her husband was gone for a long time and did not return until late in the evening. Ambria wondered why she was still waiting for him. She knew what was keeping him and occupying his time.
She wondered why she had married him to start with, that man. It might have been love once, but that was long gone and faded.
“You’re back.” Ambria said when Krydence finally returned. He look startled to see her awake and at the table.
“Ambria! I didn’t expect you to be awake at this time, dear.” Krydence was nervous, she could tell. He was never one to disguise his emotions well.
“I’m leaving you, Krydence.”
The statement hung in the air, a death sentence. Ironic, she thought, that they called this man the Judge in their silly Tarot.
“But, but why?” There was a strange edge of desperation in his voice.
“I don’t love you anymore.” She shrugged. I’m tired of your affairs and putting up with it all.”
He was silent. Thankfully.
“Enjoy your piece of eternity.” She got up and walked out the door. “I suppose I might see you. Or I won’t.”
Her former husband stood there in the door and did not move.
One day, Ambria thought, she will not love you too, and it will hurt deeply.
Kentravyon the Sleeper
I pick up the crystal, and study it: it is about the size of my head. It seems to be humming slightly and is warm to the touch. Curious. I cut myself on an edge- blood wells up. Lukys had told me to keep on eye on it- it would be easy to lose it among here among these other crystals. All, which rather inconveniently, look roughly identical.
Irritating.
In my hands, it grows warmer. There is something about this crystal, intoxicating and inviting and seductive. On whim, I press it to my face. The pitch of the hum increases- it becomes a pulse. An idea comes to mind, unbidden. I begin to carve the crystal and chips fly. I shave off edges haphazardly, with no shape in mind.
The hum swells.
I continue to sculpt. The pressure against my ears grows. Something writhes and crawls under my skin.
The beat is in every fiber of my being. Every particle in me moves in sync to the ebb and flow and beneath every note, I can feel the advance of the Tide.
Under my hands, a form is taking shape. Spherical.
I throw myself into the Tide.
It is exhilaration and glory and destruction and creation life and death and power. It is everything. And all of it, is for my taking.
I am invincible and unstoppable. I am God.
I reach out, and call upon it all. Every drop in that vast ocean is mine, and I drink it all. I swallow the sea.
Or perhaps the sea swallows me.
The boundless power I bottle into my body resists it. Immediately, it struggles against the physical boundaries. I scream as my fingers dig into my face. In desperation, I claw at the crystal- my hands leave bloody trails. My mind is set aflame, and in my agony, my flesh strips away, leaving only bone.
Austere, white bone.
There might be pain, but I do not feel.
There might be blood, but I do not bleed.
There might be tears, but I do not weep.
Suddenly.
It is over.
I fall empty and worn to the ground. I do not move for a long time. I feel as if something had been torn away from me. Something precious and forgotten that I could not name. The crystal lies beside me, shoved aside in my frenzy. I pick it up, and consider it. It is still warm.
My thoughts are broken and fragmented. It was as if I was born again, nothing but a babe. There is something changed about me, undoubtedly. My hands and my body is the same. But there is something different. I do not know what.
A sound behind me.
I turn slowly, to see a child look at me. A young boy, a babe- not even a fraction of my age. He is wide eyed and silent and stares at me intently.
I motion for him come forward and that I mean no harm. He takes a hesitant forward. His knees and clothes are dirty. He looks bewildered. I ask him then, does he know who I am.
He shakes his head. I open my hand to him, and with a child’s trust, he places his palm in mine. He walks closer and studies my face. In his eyes, I see curiosity and something more. I touch his face, gently but firmly. Beneath my hands, I can feel the fragility of his life and the pulse of his life. In those wide eyes, muddled windows to the world, I see curiosity and something more.
I see my own reflection. It is not as it was before.
Tentatively, I run my hands over my face. I do not find warm flesh- what is there is smooth and cold and hard and porous. Hard lines and chiseled edges. I know the form beneath my hands and the touch.
It is the texture of bone.
A skull, peering to me from the child’s blue eyes.
I regard the revelation and I realize the truth. The memory of a burning and purging flame.
Once, I had been immolated.
I was born anew then, and my skin, upon my revival, did not scar or burn- it did not leave raised paths. It bled and clotted and closed and healed, and I did not age as mortals did.
I begin to understand.
Once more, I was reborn. I was stripped of flesh and fear and all moral constraints and pitiful judgments and prejudices. The weakness of the primordial flesh, puddles of fluid and blood that were born to me is no more. I am no longer bound by stupidity of the world, by the dim perception of my surroundings. My vision is clear now, and I see the world about me in truth.
A world of rotting carcasses. No- less than that, for there is life and direction in corruption. This is worse- it is a lurching world without sense sculpted of nothing but inaudible silence and in it, I can feel the death of intelligence and beauty and sentient and will.
I look to the child, with his fair hair and bright blue eyes and his ignorance. How unaware he is of the stench around him, of the universal sin about him. I take his hand firmly in my hands, and I kiss him. This is an innocent.
I will preserve the innocence.
And as I pull back, I draw the air from his lungs. He gasps, but I do not hear it- the air has vacated the space around him. He struggles feebly, his face not understanding. Confusion. I cradle him gently, and pity him as he jerks and convulses. His hands reach for one another. He could not understand, with his delicate mind. He could not understand the reasons of his death or my motivations.
Then it is over.
I lay him down on the earth and press my ear to his chest. His heart no longer beats. I murmur something to console his death, assurance that the judgment I passed was moral and sound.
Such is the will of God.
I turn back to the crystal, and I glimpse something within it. I look to those sightless eyes, oh so blue, and there I find something locked within. An idea flits into my mind. In frenzy I peel away the layers of the crystal. With my hands, I unearth perfection from the crystal.
I stare at my work in serenity and pride.
It is gleaming and ascetic. Sculpted to exactness, from the teeth to the jawbone and the gaping sockets. I allow myself a smile.
It is the face of God. My face.
There is a cry behind me, throated and full. I turn and see a man as he bends over the child’s form. There is grief in his manner and I do not know why. He clutches and grasps at the still form like a child- cannot he see the blessing I had given the child?
I move forward to attempt to communicate this to him. He screams something incomprehensible, and my words fall to deaf ears. He does not listen to me, and seizes his weapon. I look at it in amusement- how far humans have advanced. They begin with sticks and stone and graduate to metal, each attempting to devise a new way to kill one another.
There are tears on his contorted face. I do not understand why. He rushes at me and pierces me with his weapon.
Humans bleed like faucets. They spew blood of all shades of red, and it splashes and stains the world around them. But I do not bleed. The man, between sobs, rams his weapon deeper into me.
I find myself impatient. But I will forgive him and allow him my blessing.
Human hearts are red things. All muscle and warmth, it steams in the air and pumps through tubes shuddering pulse that sustain life and shines wetly between his broken ribs. I allow him to see it, and he opens his mouth to scream. I pull the air from him before he can. There is horror painted on his face, and with a finger, I trace brown streaks on his face with his heart’s blood. He still does not see, so I crush his sight. His eyes are soft beneath my fingers.
It seems like a long time before the heart in my hand stops moving.
It is even longer before it cools in the evening air.
I bend and pick up the crystal, and set off to find the others. My hands leave glistening crimson on its surface.
Pellys the Recluse
A memory of a long time past stirs.
“Death,” Pellys said, “is a good thing.”
“Is that why you killed all the goldfish?” His companion asks.
“They can die. We can’t. I can’t. Something we won’t ever have. Didn’t we think it was a safe bet, in the long run?” He reaches in the pool, and holds another goldfish in his hand. It is dying, slowly. Pellys feels something like regret.
A shrug. “I thought it was. Good idea as any- get to see the world.”
“All the time in the world,” Pellys sighs, as the goldfish suffocates- the gills flap feebly for air. He tosses it down on the pile of dead fish. “To stack up a long memory of atrocities. Genocide and murder and warfare and rape and what else. I envy them.”
“The span of their memories or their ability to die?” He regards the corpses. “You’ll kill all the fish if you keep on going like that.”
“Both, I think.” Pellys drops another fish to the ground. The remark sets an idea in his mind, unbidden. He turns to look at him, serious and grave. “Can I ask something of you?”
“What would that be?” His companion inquires.
“I want you to cut off my head.”
The memory fades into oblivion. Synapses disconnect and fire in irregularity.
Coron The Rodent
Coron, to be known, was the only immortal rat.
For that fact, he was also the only other immortal that was not a human, which caused a great deal of puzzlement for many of their ranks. Lukys liked it.
But no one asked.
After all, he was just a rat.
This is actually spoiler free, so anyone who's read Immortal Prince can read it without fear. I'm surprised I managed to get this in a post.
The idea was to write a story for all the cards in the Tarot. There's 78 cards.
I passed and decided to do a modified Tarot deck. Of sorts, down to 21 and a rodent.
Arryl the Sorceress
I awake, nauseous and in pain. I do not know what is causing the pain, but my stomach and innards clench and tighten.
Then something lessens the pain, and I sigh in relief. I open my eyes to see a human face- female and fair in features and color. There is a gentle serenity to her bearing, a kindness that calms me even as I realize the truth of her.
“Hush now.” She places a cool cloth on my head. “It’s fine now.”
I try to speak, but my lips are cracked and my throat too dry. I cough and I feel a wave of heat spasm through my body. I cannot move my arms or my legs, and the nausea and pain returns.
“I’ve done what I can to lessen the pain but…” There is an infinite sadness in her eyes. Tender and caring, as if they would stand for seeing any life extinguished. “Rest now.”
I nod, and I close my eyes and sleep.
The woman closes the eyes of the amphibian gently, and kneels down by the bed and softly, she cries.
Syrolee, Empress of the Five Realms
She hated them all, every single misbegotten one of them.
She hated them even more on the simple fact that she could never have what they had. The ability to wield the Tide.
Wretched Tide Lords. But at the least, she had her children who would on occasion, do as asked.
It was like treading water, carefully. She couldn’t afford to offend them, save for Elyssa, but she couldn’t afford to let the gain a upper hand against her either.
It was a careful balance.
Krydence the Judge
He had no idea why they called him the Judge. It was, he supposed, his ability to make a fair minded choice in the heat of the moment. Like such, when his wife had confronted him about his affair with the dark, pretty serving girl at the palace.
She had told him to get rid of her. He would, in good course, but only after he had his fun. Afterwards, they had clambered out and he told her he would make her immortal.
Not that he actually intended to. The Eternal Flame would very much likely just burn her to death and he would be rid of this problem.
“Where are we going?” Medwen asked.
“To eternity, dear.” He answered. He led her to the room and the green flames. In a hurry, he stuck his hand in the flames and very quickly, set her on fire.
She screamed and kept screaming as he left her there to die.
A job well done.
Lukys the Scholar
He is outside and looks at the stars again.
He does not suppose that any of those inside quite realizes why he looks at the stars with such fondness and practices his lost art of astrology still.
He might be the only one who does so still, and the thought saddens him.
But then the rat on his shoulder nudges him gently, and he smiles at something absurd.
He is smiles easily and he is amused by what that smile hides.
Tryan the Devil
He could feel the Tide welling up around the new immortal. Tryan wasn’t sure if he was doing it on purpose, but he could warrant a guess that he was instinctively drawing upon it.
“Gabriella?” The new immortal was sounding hurt and wounded. He could’ve almost laughed, then, if not for the fact that there were several very sharp spears in their direction.
“Cayal, what is the meaning of this? You’re not supposed to be here.” The woman’s expression, oddly enough, was more shocked than anything. Almost like she didn’t expect Cayal to be alive and kicking still.
“Sorry, m’lady, but we were just passing through.” Tryan quickly slipped in.
“No, Tryan,” Cayal waved him off, his gaze fixed on the mortal woman. She was a pretty thing- Tryan could see where Cayal wanted her still. “Gabriella- what’s the meaning of this?”
She sniffed. “I’m returning from my marriage to your brother. What are you doing here? You were exiled from Kordona, never to return.”
This could be interesting and fun. The new immortal was a literal hold of power now, about to snap at any moment. Tryan leaned to Cayal and whispered, “She’s looking down on you, lad. Seems she’s got it for your brother now.”
“No…” Cayal shook his head, almost pitifully. “It isn’t like that.”
“Seems a bit like that. She got you exiled, didn’t she?”
“What are you two talking about?” The woman snapped. Insolent mortals, thinking to hold us up like this. Tryan could’ve easily killed them all, but he wouldn’t take away all the fun.
“And aren’t you an immortal now? Tides, Cayal, you’re a Tide Lord! She’s got no right to talk to you like that.” If his guess was right, this immortal didn’t have a single clue of what to do with all that power but to let it out in one rush. “You’re a practical god compared to these insects.”
Cayal looked torn and confused. Perfect. “Gabriella…I’m back.”
She regarded him coolly. “Guards, kill him.”
Then there was a roar as the power stored up in Cayal was let loose.
Cayal the Immortal Prince
“You know something?” Cayal remarked.
“I know several things more than you, I’d wager,” Lukys responded, studying a rock curiously. “Like how I am your father.”
“Beyond that, Lukys.” The man had an eye too keen for the absurd.
Lukys threw the rock over the cliff-side, where it was followed by a small explosion. “Well, why aren’t you telling me what you know, old son?”
“Kordona.”
“Your homeland that your blew up?” He flicked another rock into the air, where it burst into pieces. “I’d warrant that I’ve figured out how to split a particle.”
“Aye. I’ve been thinking.”
“Always a dangerous pastime.”
“Maybe we need something to anchor onto. Maybe we need a home or something or someone to hold on to, through the passage of time. I don’t think we were meant to be immortal, Lukys. Our minds weren’t made to be like this, so lost and apart from humanity. Tides, look at the rest of the bunch and how they’ve turned out.” Cayal fell silent. “I just wonder what it would’ve been like if I had Kordona still.”
Lukys didn’t say anything.
“Where is your home, Lukys? You never told me.”
The dark man smiled. “Of course I did.”
Cayal looked confused.
Lukys pointed up at the stars in the sky “One of those.”
“Are you ever serious?”
“Of course I am. How do you feel about joining Kentravyon’s army?”
Rance the Hangman
Rance was a man of little words and even less laughter.
It wasn’t because he didn’t find anything funny. He might’ve, but he honestly couldn’t find the time and place in his heart to care. Much more about anything than his general and continued existence.
Rance simply didn’t care.
There was one lesson he had learned from eternity, and that was that it was generally much easier to not care. Apathy, he had said, was the balm of the soul.
So, when his sister and his brother approached him over a squabble or argument of what to do about a sect of villagers, Rance shrugged and rode out to make them stop bickering.
Rance didn’t like the noise.
The next morning, Elyssa and Tryan had settled on what to do and went to the village to find Rance hanging up the last child.
He had hung every one in the village.
He felt nothing, and he felt fine.
Jaxyn the Lord of Temperance
Jaxyn hated his title and drank his ale. Lord of Temperance, indeed. Pity he couldn’t get drunk.
He honestly had no idea how that bastard Cayal had managed to live up to his threat and carry it out so well. And apparently, by all semblances, establish a firm church following in one of the continents. He couldn’t remember which one. He got up to leave the bar, and paid his bill.
Outside there was a monk dressed in purple, and preaching of how one must not imbibe in drinking or pleasure as Jaxyn, the Lord of Temperance declared.
He hated Cayal.
Brynden the Lord of Reckoning
The Lord speaks, and we hear his rules.
We shall not be prideful in our manners. Such is a path to sin and away from the righteous Path.
We shall not seek material wealth, for desire is the cause of suffering.
We shall recognize that suffering is caused by desire and seek to abolish such a thing.
We shall discipline our minds and bodies to endure enlightenment.
We shall remember injuries to ourselves, not for vanity, but to ensure justice is met.
Elyssa the Immortal Maiden
If you asked her of her title, she would weep and perhaps invite you to bed with her. If you were unlucky, she would kill you then and there. It didn’t quite matter either way.
You were dead if you mentioned such a thing to her, generally.
The young boy (perhaps a man, rather) found out to his affront and shock that night. She invited him, a handsome fellow but of low birth, to come with her. She was the Empresses’ daughter and ugly as sin, but he did not care and was a fool.
Reputation is everything, they say.
So he came to her that night, and she brought him to her bed and they began to make love. But then she began to scream, and he could not understand (or wrap his mind around why she told him her title) and he thrust harder and harder and she screamed and wailed and wept and he for the life of him did not understand.
He did not understand when she broke his neck in pain.
She wept afterwards, but for what, no one was sure.
Diala the Minion Maker
She stretches, and men desire her.
She exists for that desire. She is the heady perfume that seduces us. She is the bitch on heat that draws us on. She is lust and desire and sexuality. She is sensual and seductive and voluptuous and the fire that stirs us. She is honey and her touch is scorching and she is relief in the dark places.
She is the Minion Maker, for men are hers.
Kinta the Charioteer
“In your legends and myths, we’re better than you.” She said, toying with her wet hair. “You’re a historian, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said carefully. “There are legends like that.”
“Your legends say that we’re gods and perfect beings. That we either suffer from the cruel hand of fate or that we are diametrically opposed to one another in perfection. We’re you, but we’re better. We don’t die, we don’t age, and we command the very elements. We have the wisdom of the ages to guide us, and we find love that can withstand such trials. We’re beautiful and complete and walking works of art.”
I say nothing. It is hot in the bath.
“But you know the truth? The truth is that we’re not perfect. We’re you, all the same, with the same flaws and mistakes and fears. The only difference? We don’t have to worry about dying, and we have all the time in the world. We’re you with a million years to sit and reflect on our life and all the horrible things we’ve done. We’re you without the ability to forget or sleep. I can’t even remember what it was like to dream.”
“We’re you, but we’re no better. Not really.”
I look to her, and it looks like she is crying. But the water is hot, so I cannot tell.
Lyna the Betrayer
Lyna was a whore and she was not afraid to admit such.
She had been a whore prior to her ascension, but there were several lessons that she had taken with her from her previous life. One such skill was how to manipulate men and ply her trade well.
She knew how to light a fire and passion in a man, and draw him onward. There were only a few as well versed as her in the art of seduction, such as Cayal. But her victim was hapless before her- Lyna had taunted and lured him on inexhaustibly, drawing his passion and lust out to a paramount peak. But he was the governor of the town and thus, in a position of power.
All for this night. He was rough, this one, and grabbed ineffectually at her dress. She moaned to encourage him onward, and helped him a bit with undoing her dress.
Lyna was starting to get impatient with this whole farce. But in the end, it would pay off. She pulled his shirt off and he moaned her name.
Honestly, where was he?
She started to present a little resistance to his advance, but it only worked him further. Good. She was pressed against the wall and her legs around his.
There- at the range of her hearing, she heard footsteps. The governor moved down, violently ripping her dress. She allowed herself a small smile- this was going better than planned. She started to increase her resistance, and telling the governor to stop, so that please, she would do anything else. The man was beyond hearing now, though.
All men were the same.
Her husband burst into the room suddenly, and she started to scream. The governor looked confused and her husband furious. There were terse words exchanged, and she screamed for help, that the governor had forced his way into the house and upon her and that she was so thankful.
Her husband bought it all. The governor was dragged off by the guards, and her husband cradled him in her arms to comfort her. She wept, but in her mind, she was pleased. With this, the governor would be executed before the night was out and then that would only leave one man to take up leadership.
Her poor fool of a husband, of course.
Taryx the Manipulator
It was always cold in Jeldia. The harsh winds and colder climate made human settlement almost impossible, save for a few hardy sailors and their families who dared to brave the cold.
It was cold at the bottom of the world, but that was to be expected.
Amid that land of ice and snow, they became a hardy lot- cold and severe as the world about them. One couldn’t blame them for such; it was an unforgiving land.
That was what he liked about it, and the people. The atheistic of ice- it was simple and pure and clean.
So, when he found one of his beloved ice sculptures broken by one of the children, he could only reason that it was justified that he should take his retribution.
Several months later, a ship came to the shore of the village and much to their surprise, could find nothing of the village. Just mounds and mounds of snow and ice.
It was upon further investigation that they found the villagers were underneath the snow.
They had all been frozen over, homes and bodies in their entirety. Their faces were not peaceful; they held expressions of horror. They stood in a silent vigil, ice sculptures.
Medwen the Artisan
The guardsmen had found her along the shoreline one day. She gave her name and told him of her intention to settle down and work as an artisan.
No one knew where she came from, that young girl. She was pretty and dark haired and lived by herself in a cottage on the outskirts of town. She made a living by making all sorts of pottery, which she was rather skilled at. She was by all reports, single.
It was not long till she had a line of suitors lined up for her hand. She turned each and every one down.
The years passed, and people wondered at why she was still so pretty and dark hair and youthful. There were fearful whispers in dark corners, and rumors began.
When the harvest failed and many a child was taken by the frost, they came for her.
The mob took her and strung her up and set fire to the wood and cheered as she burned. Her beautiful pottery lay broken and smashed, and careless feet crushed them. Then, when the fire was finished, they went about their way.
Some of the guards came to bury the remains, but there were none to be found. Just beautiful shards of fragile things.
Maralacye the Seeker
An old witch, they called her.
No one knew who she was or was quite sure how old she was or how long she had been living there. The elders in the village would swear by their bones that their own grandfathers had known of her, and that she was older than the earth itself.
Perhaps it was true. No one knew for sure.
All that was known is that she had been there as long as any memory could stretch and she lived alone. And oh, she mined- how she mined for months and weeks without end, rarely ever emerging from her cottage. But for what, no one knew. No one ever bothered her.
No one that was wise, so the word went in the village. There had been a band of bandits, once, that had tried setting upon her house.
No one saw them again.
The children would wander by with wide eyed curiosity, and the adults would warn them away and give the adobe suspicions glances. On occasion, she would venture out to town and speak to an occasional fellow.
Everyone gave her a wide berth.
She didn’t mind at all. She liked it that way.
Less distractions and noise. Most importantly, more time to keep mining.
Deeper and farther.
Engarhod, Emperor of the Five Realms
His had only one ambition in life and that was to be rich.
That was all, really. A simple desire. Amassing wealth and whatnot.
His desire carried over into eternity as well. And by his own standards, he did a relatively good job at it and managed to snap up quite a bit. But as good things go, his wife had become weighted down by delusions of grandeur and spun up some silly tale for him and her. Something mystical and praise worthy.
Not that he minded as the money poured in.
Ambria the Goodwife
Her husband was gone for a long time and did not return until late in the evening. Ambria wondered why she was still waiting for him. She knew what was keeping him and occupying his time.
She wondered why she had married him to start with, that man. It might have been love once, but that was long gone and faded.
“You’re back.” Ambria said when Krydence finally returned. He look startled to see her awake and at the table.
“Ambria! I didn’t expect you to be awake at this time, dear.” Krydence was nervous, she could tell. He was never one to disguise his emotions well.
“I’m leaving you, Krydence.”
The statement hung in the air, a death sentence. Ironic, she thought, that they called this man the Judge in their silly Tarot.
“But, but why?” There was a strange edge of desperation in his voice.
“I don’t love you anymore.” She shrugged. I’m tired of your affairs and putting up with it all.”
He was silent. Thankfully.
“Enjoy your piece of eternity.” She got up and walked out the door. “I suppose I might see you. Or I won’t.”
Her former husband stood there in the door and did not move.
One day, Ambria thought, she will not love you too, and it will hurt deeply.
Kentravyon the Sleeper
I pick up the crystal, and study it: it is about the size of my head. It seems to be humming slightly and is warm to the touch. Curious. I cut myself on an edge- blood wells up. Lukys had told me to keep on eye on it- it would be easy to lose it among here among these other crystals. All, which rather inconveniently, look roughly identical.
Irritating.
In my hands, it grows warmer. There is something about this crystal, intoxicating and inviting and seductive. On whim, I press it to my face. The pitch of the hum increases- it becomes a pulse. An idea comes to mind, unbidden. I begin to carve the crystal and chips fly. I shave off edges haphazardly, with no shape in mind.
The hum swells.
I continue to sculpt. The pressure against my ears grows. Something writhes and crawls under my skin.
The beat is in every fiber of my being. Every particle in me moves in sync to the ebb and flow and beneath every note, I can feel the advance of the Tide.
Under my hands, a form is taking shape. Spherical.
I throw myself into the Tide.
It is exhilaration and glory and destruction and creation life and death and power. It is everything. And all of it, is for my taking.
I am invincible and unstoppable. I am God.
I reach out, and call upon it all. Every drop in that vast ocean is mine, and I drink it all. I swallow the sea.
Or perhaps the sea swallows me.
The boundless power I bottle into my body resists it. Immediately, it struggles against the physical boundaries. I scream as my fingers dig into my face. In desperation, I claw at the crystal- my hands leave bloody trails. My mind is set aflame, and in my agony, my flesh strips away, leaving only bone.
Austere, white bone.
There might be pain, but I do not feel.
There might be blood, but I do not bleed.
There might be tears, but I do not weep.
Suddenly.
It is over.
I fall empty and worn to the ground. I do not move for a long time. I feel as if something had been torn away from me. Something precious and forgotten that I could not name. The crystal lies beside me, shoved aside in my frenzy. I pick it up, and consider it. It is still warm.
My thoughts are broken and fragmented. It was as if I was born again, nothing but a babe. There is something changed about me, undoubtedly. My hands and my body is the same. But there is something different. I do not know what.
A sound behind me.
I turn slowly, to see a child look at me. A young boy, a babe- not even a fraction of my age. He is wide eyed and silent and stares at me intently.
I motion for him come forward and that I mean no harm. He takes a hesitant forward. His knees and clothes are dirty. He looks bewildered. I ask him then, does he know who I am.
He shakes his head. I open my hand to him, and with a child’s trust, he places his palm in mine. He walks closer and studies my face. In his eyes, I see curiosity and something more. I touch his face, gently but firmly. Beneath my hands, I can feel the fragility of his life and the pulse of his life. In those wide eyes, muddled windows to the world, I see curiosity and something more.
I see my own reflection. It is not as it was before.
Tentatively, I run my hands over my face. I do not find warm flesh- what is there is smooth and cold and hard and porous. Hard lines and chiseled edges. I know the form beneath my hands and the touch.
It is the texture of bone.
A skull, peering to me from the child’s blue eyes.
I regard the revelation and I realize the truth. The memory of a burning and purging flame.
Once, I had been immolated.
I was born anew then, and my skin, upon my revival, did not scar or burn- it did not leave raised paths. It bled and clotted and closed and healed, and I did not age as mortals did.
I begin to understand.
Once more, I was reborn. I was stripped of flesh and fear and all moral constraints and pitiful judgments and prejudices. The weakness of the primordial flesh, puddles of fluid and blood that were born to me is no more. I am no longer bound by stupidity of the world, by the dim perception of my surroundings. My vision is clear now, and I see the world about me in truth.
A world of rotting carcasses. No- less than that, for there is life and direction in corruption. This is worse- it is a lurching world without sense sculpted of nothing but inaudible silence and in it, I can feel the death of intelligence and beauty and sentient and will.
I look to the child, with his fair hair and bright blue eyes and his ignorance. How unaware he is of the stench around him, of the universal sin about him. I take his hand firmly in my hands, and I kiss him. This is an innocent.
I will preserve the innocence.
And as I pull back, I draw the air from his lungs. He gasps, but I do not hear it- the air has vacated the space around him. He struggles feebly, his face not understanding. Confusion. I cradle him gently, and pity him as he jerks and convulses. His hands reach for one another. He could not understand, with his delicate mind. He could not understand the reasons of his death or my motivations.
Then it is over.
I lay him down on the earth and press my ear to his chest. His heart no longer beats. I murmur something to console his death, assurance that the judgment I passed was moral and sound.
Such is the will of God.
I turn back to the crystal, and I glimpse something within it. I look to those sightless eyes, oh so blue, and there I find something locked within. An idea flits into my mind. In frenzy I peel away the layers of the crystal. With my hands, I unearth perfection from the crystal.
I stare at my work in serenity and pride.
It is gleaming and ascetic. Sculpted to exactness, from the teeth to the jawbone and the gaping sockets. I allow myself a smile.
It is the face of God. My face.
There is a cry behind me, throated and full. I turn and see a man as he bends over the child’s form. There is grief in his manner and I do not know why. He clutches and grasps at the still form like a child- cannot he see the blessing I had given the child?
I move forward to attempt to communicate this to him. He screams something incomprehensible, and my words fall to deaf ears. He does not listen to me, and seizes his weapon. I look at it in amusement- how far humans have advanced. They begin with sticks and stone and graduate to metal, each attempting to devise a new way to kill one another.
There are tears on his contorted face. I do not understand why. He rushes at me and pierces me with his weapon.
Humans bleed like faucets. They spew blood of all shades of red, and it splashes and stains the world around them. But I do not bleed. The man, between sobs, rams his weapon deeper into me.
I find myself impatient. But I will forgive him and allow him my blessing.
Human hearts are red things. All muscle and warmth, it steams in the air and pumps through tubes shuddering pulse that sustain life and shines wetly between his broken ribs. I allow him to see it, and he opens his mouth to scream. I pull the air from him before he can. There is horror painted on his face, and with a finger, I trace brown streaks on his face with his heart’s blood. He still does not see, so I crush his sight. His eyes are soft beneath my fingers.
It seems like a long time before the heart in my hand stops moving.
It is even longer before it cools in the evening air.
I bend and pick up the crystal, and set off to find the others. My hands leave glistening crimson on its surface.
Pellys the Recluse
A memory of a long time past stirs.
“Death,” Pellys said, “is a good thing.”
“Is that why you killed all the goldfish?” His companion asks.
“They can die. We can’t. I can’t. Something we won’t ever have. Didn’t we think it was a safe bet, in the long run?” He reaches in the pool, and holds another goldfish in his hand. It is dying, slowly. Pellys feels something like regret.
A shrug. “I thought it was. Good idea as any- get to see the world.”
“All the time in the world,” Pellys sighs, as the goldfish suffocates- the gills flap feebly for air. He tosses it down on the pile of dead fish. “To stack up a long memory of atrocities. Genocide and murder and warfare and rape and what else. I envy them.”
“The span of their memories or their ability to die?” He regards the corpses. “You’ll kill all the fish if you keep on going like that.”
“Both, I think.” Pellys drops another fish to the ground. The remark sets an idea in his mind, unbidden. He turns to look at him, serious and grave. “Can I ask something of you?”
“What would that be?” His companion inquires.
“I want you to cut off my head.”
The memory fades into oblivion. Synapses disconnect and fire in irregularity.
Coron The Rodent
Coron, to be known, was the only immortal rat.
For that fact, he was also the only other immortal that was not a human, which caused a great deal of puzzlement for many of their ranks. Lukys liked it.
But no one asked.
After all, he was just a rat.