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The Courant: Quests: Memoirs of an old mage, part I The Rhythms of Time - Part IV. The Rhythms of Time - Part III. The Rhythms of Time - Part II. The Rhythms of Time – Part I.

September 18, Wednesday

Memoirs of an old mage, part I - Videric

March 24, Sunday

The Rhythms of Time - Part IV. - Angelus Moon

Excavations of the Soul. The old man walked ever onward. It had been a week's travel since he had chanced upon the young Jaden, a week of searching, of prying the deepest recesses of his mind for answers. And still, those answers eluded him. He kept close to the shelter of the trees to evade the simple farmers who tilled their fields nearby. He watched them avidly for a moment. He watched the way their ploughs went to work, scratching away at the surface of the earthland, slowly but surely clawing for the gifts that were buried beneath. It reminded him of something he'd read once; but the memory was vague and shapeless, without substance. He walked onwards, nearing his destination. And there it stood, or had stood, at least. Debris and detritus were strewn about where once stood a single tower. His mind formed fragments of what it may have looked like: a granite, stippled, withered arm that reached for the heavens, perhaps. But now this arm was a stump: broken, crushed and collapsed- the penalty for seeking too much, for reaching too high perhaps? The night swam overhead, swallowing the last remaining sunlight. He approached the rubble, and reached over, fingers wrapped taut around a large slab of stone. He held the impossibly heavy stone aloft in a single hand, and considered it. Its hard, impenetrable exterior; the cynical, cold clarity of its surface. And without effort, he cast the shard over his shoulder, and began to dig. Weighty mounds of rock flew past his shoulders, to an onlooker they might have appeared as light as the simple, wooden staff he had discarded. He delved deeper and deeper into the depths of the wreckage, his eyes burning like a man possessed. As he did so, flashes of images passed before his eyes, faint impressions and recollections appearing for less than seconds before dissipating away. He raged against the misty, nebulous clouds which mired his mind, and with each throw, with each casting of stone and rock over his shoulder, he could feel the haze receding. He battled against the building in this manner for some while; time flowed through and out of his body, and he remained completely unaware of its passage. Until he saw it; until he saw the hand clenching and unclenching, fighting against damnation, fighting for its own existence. He smiled, and like an angel of salvation, plucked the figure free from its private tomb. * * * Yulunga awoke. His skin was still covered in a residue of dust and chalk. He opened and closed his eyes a few times; the enormity of the situation had not quite reached him yet. He was 'alive', if one with his condition could ever truly be said to be alive. He glanced down at the tattered black robes, his eyes lingered on his bloodied gloves. His first thought went to Ari. He stood, still somewhat unsteady, and examined his surroundings. A quick glance over his shoulder verified his location- his old home. The darkness was thick tonight, almost palpable; the only source of light nearby was the simple lantern, a warm, inviting glow beneath the thickets of the wood. He approached it... and it was then that he saw the eyes blazing in the darkness. "Ah. So you are awake, at last." Yulunga's eyes narrowed slightly as he heard that voice; sleek, subdued, regal; a whisper filled with the promise of pain. He knew that voice. "Welcome back to the land of the unliving, Yulunga." Yulunga stared bleakly at the figure concealed in the foliage of the trees. "You shouldn't have come..." he moaned in response. The ancient figure's eyes gleamed in the darkness once again. "I hath come a long way to find you. The least you could do is offer me some hospitality." Yulunga sneered. "I wasn't willing to share a tea with you- or with any of our kind." His voice was thick with disgust. The cloaked figure paused for a moment, letting the silence permeate the air. He leant forward slightly, still concealed by the shadows. "It seems that some of us hath left a bitter taste in your mouth. To be honest, with the company you kept, I am not surprised." "I am not sure any of you are a good company." Yulunga retorted. "And... could I be a good companion?" There was a long pause. He felt the shining fires that were the other man's eyes glance downwards slightly. Yulunga followed the gaze; he stood staring at his own hards- his hands that were thick with blood. Dried blood. "Ah. The stain of guilt, perhaps, does not wash off so easily... as that of the blood." Yulunga gazed up at him as he removed the tainted gloves from his hands. "Who's not guilty?" he asked with a sting. "Guilt is a matter of perspective, friend Yulunga."The voice was thick with condescension. "I feel no guilt. Not anymore. I am liberated from all the constraints of humanitas, as you should be." Another pause: the shadows around the concealed figure twisted and writhed as he clutched his head. A low moan emanated outwards into the night. The figure collected himself, and spoke. "I came here to free you, Yulunga. Word had reached my ears of your burial beneath your own tower. But know this, I had come to free you... for a reason..." The heavy silence fell upon him again. "You are blessed with visions, are you not? You see things that none walking will ever see." Yulunga shifted slightly in contemplation as the dread whisper spoke again. "I hath long since known of your talents, Yulunga, childe of Anathame. I chartered your progress through the ranks of the Knights of Virtue, watching; seeing all that you were, all that you are, all that you might be. Your turning only enhanced that gift further." "Angelus..." "Ah. So you do know." Yulunga could feel the mocking smile wash over him as the velvet blackness spoke those words. He continued: "Angelus... You probably remember me when I was still that 'blind old dotard', as you put it." His voice was laden with sarcasm. "I've been trying to foresee... and what have I found?" Yulunga turned back to the lantern. "Yes, I've been blind." After a long hesitation, Yulunga turned back to Angelus. "But you, are you willing to find something?" he said with crooked smile. He was greeted with the sound of a torch striking. The robed figure rose, though this time he was not hunched over. He stood erect, as the flames washed nearer his face. Yulunga felt the feeling of terror, the feeling of the red rage, as he watched the flames dance perilously close to that face. He watched the beast sing in those fiery eyes. "Come closer, Yulunga. I want you to listen, very, very carefully." As Angelus neared him, Yulunga froze. His gift allowed him a glimpse into the robed figure's mind- and what he was he could not say. He would not say. He heard the sound of fabric tearing, tearing in his mind... "Your insanity is my salvation, Yulunga!" Slender fingers clasped Yulunga's robes, shaking eddies of dust into the air. "There is no difference between insanity and genius except success, Arcanum. In both instances, the person is merely a minority of one." The voice flared in intensity. "Some call you madman, some call you insane; I would call you prophet. I know you see things." The hood of blackness leant closer. "Aid me." The words were spoken as a threat, a promise, more than a plea. The voice echoed in the night sky. "Aid me." Yulunga nodded his assent. "I will," he spoke. Angelus sank back into the smouldering darkness beneath the trees. "What is it you need?" he asked, after some long moment's pause. "You will see. In time." Pale hands wrapped themselves around the figure's head. "My journey must continue, it seems. There is much that I must do." Yulunga nodded sagely at this, as Angelus reached for the staff he had discarded nearby. "La Revedere, Yulunga. I shall call on your aid soon. For now, enjoy the freedom from your imprisonment." He inclined his head slightly as he spoke those words. Yulunga turned on him, the dread realisation of his situation finally culminating within him. "But... I am caged! Now that you have come, you've taken me to what... to what I've been trying to escape!" A thin, faint smile. "There is no escape from fate, Yulunga. Both you and I know this." He stepped backwards, and as he did so, he seemed not to be a real figure at all, more like a silhouette in the ruddy torchlight. "I bid you good travels, Arcanum. Do not doubt yourself; you are the only one who can assist me." Yulunga stood silently, as Angelus retreated into the night. And as Yulunga clasped his hands over his ears, the dread whisper clung to him like a splinter buried in his mind. "Remember Yulunga... insanity is merely a minority of one..." Written by Angelus Moon. ©

March 14, Thursday

The Rhythms of Time - Part III. - Angelus Moon

A Hunter's Call. The Hunter looked away from the Moon, his twin eyes burning with the red hues of the beast, and with not a moment's hesitation, nor a conscious thought, he broke into sprint. The hooves that were his boots pounded the forest floor, his blood sang, roared with the spirit of the chase. 'He' had come back. That was the furthest extent of thought this creature could manage now, for he was overcome with the thrill of the hunt. His free spirit soared as branches and twigs snapped underfoot, his long braided mesh of hair whipping against the wind. Those creatures that dared roam into the tangled tree thickets which mired Western Naeloth sped away, fleeing from their fickle master's rage. The long suppressed primal urges of humanitas were his friend, his lover, and he and his personal beast were locked in an eternal embrace as they raced, raced into the night. He savoured the sensations, the raw, potent smells and sounds of the forest. He felt no physical craving this night- the hunger was not yet upon him, but still... there was a need. A need to feel alive, to walk the untrodden path once again, away from the trappings of civilisation and etiquette. And self-denial had never been a trait that was in keeping with his people. But then, as he sped onward, feeling the scent of fear and raw emotion empowering him, a swift motion flickered past. He thundered to a halt, turning, bestial abandonment blazing in his vision. The white of canine teeth flashed before him, a thin smile. He noticed the lack of weight on his back, the load of his prized Double Axe gone. He roared with laughter, and the thin smile became an equally thin shadow, which fled into the darkness. Pursuit. He bounded after her, the two of the them playing the celebrated game of cat and mouse, hunter and hunted, predator and prey. The slighter of the two figures turned to glance over her shoulder, and at that moment, the Hunter found his prize, bursting from the undergrowth with the momentum of a frenzied grizzly bear, knocking the shadow to its feet. The Hunter smoothed black masses of hair from his face, as he placed a single boot on the young girls stomach. Her eyes shone with wild, ecstatic abandonment, he could hear her borrowed blood pulsing in her veins. The squat, haunched, bulky figure of Ra'karn spoke: "You still depend on your eyes, Shannon-childe." He said, in the course, thick tones of a Northern barbarian's voice. "Don't think." He said simply. "Feel. Instinct guides you best, young 'un." Her bright eyes shone with adoration. She eyed her master once again, taking note of the simple leathers and furs which were strewn about his body, almost appearing like a second skin on him. She noted the skulls and teeth which hung from straps and cords tired around his garments; prizes he had collected from the fallen. Though he was not tall, his width and girth still made him look formidable, perched upon her chest, bent over almost on all fours. His canines were tusks in the moonlight, and as she looked past them, past his broken left eye, she saw what he had saw gleaming in the velvet sky. Weathered features locked into a squint as he cast a gaze over his shoulder. "So you feel it boil in your blood too, young Shannon, ah? 'Tis the burning eye of fate, casting itself o'er the Mountains. 'Tis a sign. A sign from 'Him'." She pushed her hair back as she wriggled from beneath him, pressing the Axe against his chest. The hasty embrace which had occurred not one year since had preserved her naïve, simple features- the wide eyed innocence of a girl on the eve of her prime. Raised by Ra'karn for many months, she had been goaded and plied by her newfound father to become a creature of the wild, to attune herself as closely as she could to the primal song of Sosaria and its beasts. But she was no longer as naïve as she perhaps appeared to be. "You really think he's coming back, my Lord?" She said in soft, unspoilt tones. "It's been so long since he abandoned us." Ra'karn turned his gaze on her. He despised the term 'Lord'- he despised all terms of regalia and status that mortal men adorned themselves with, but that was not what roused his ire. She looked visibly hurt by the message in his eyes. He placed a hand on her head out of habit, and spoke: "Never say that, childe. He has his reasons for leaving us, he always did. Though there is no love lost between us, I know this: he would not abandon his pack. If you knew him as I do, you would know of the past he ne'er speaks of, and the guilt he still carries strapped o'er his shoulders. Trifling it sounds, true, for many in these lands tell tales of tragic pasts and deeds long forgotten. But him; his tale shadows them all." Shannon looked back at the moon. It spoke of promises, but she had not seen them yet. She had begun to loose her faith long ago, but the sight of it tonight, full bodied and burning the brightest crimson she had ever seen, it was enough to renew her faith. That, and Ra'karn's word. "Khay'don taught him better than that." He glanced sidewards to her as he said those words, and with a wide, wolf-like grin, scooped her up in his arm, the other raising the axe over a shoulder. "Come!" He spoke. "Let us ride the night air, you and I! Let us hear the song of the beast rage in our veins, let us pay homage to what we are. Tonight Shannon, we feed again. We feed for ourselves, we feed for what we are, for what we will be, but most of all, my childe, we feed for him." "For my brother." He raised his axe in tribute to the moon which blazed above them. * * * Written by Angelus Moon. ©

March 8, Friday

The Rhythms of Time - Part II. - Angelus Moon

Reflections before Dawn. An old man averted his eyes from the moon which had begun its deliberate, ominous rise to the summit of the sky. And, just like the moon, he travelled along a predestined path; moving with slow, unrelenting purpose. The curtain of darkness unveiled itself from around him as he pushed onwards, through the dark lands that bore the name of the orb which burned in the charred heavens above him. Despite the hooded robe that shrouded the figure completely from vision, one could see he was old. Of course, there was the obligatory quarterstaff and the well-conditioned bowed stance for clues, but the real indicator was the atmosphere he carried with him, almost as pungent as the exotic smells of the orient which still lingered on his cloak. It spoke of nobler days, an age of iniquity, of events lost to the ravages of time. One might guess he was once a member of the Serpent Guard of Lord British himself- he would certainly have been tall and well-muscled enough in his day. And even now, he moved with a nobleman’s grace, a grace that age could never hope to subdue. A dreamlike grace, for even the blindest of men would have known that the old man’s mind roamed somewhere far beyond Sosaria. The thunder of hooves. The sound reverberated through the shattered trees which scarred the landscape. A figure was drawing nearer, and our robed figure pauses. He pauses, indefinitely. Stirred from his reverie, his head raises slightly, and suddenly, the encroaching horse comes to a jarring halt. The figure, blessed with the face of an angel, regarded the obstacle with disdain; a look which was filled with the kind of contempt that can only be spawned from sheer, unyielding arrogance. He shifted on his steed, his lip curling slightly- one only presumes to refrain from spitting at the man who stood between him and his quarry. Oh, and he was a hunter alright, that much was obvious. Bedecked in expensive armour, a long sword and crossbow pinioned to his back, he was no doubt an imposing sight to behold for many who crossed his path- unnaturally imposing. The old man already knew the voice he would be faced with- the soft, sneering tones of mockery that were the birthright of all higher born. The voice of the proud. It reminded him distinctly of someone he knew. At least, for a fleeting moment. Keen senses picked out the hues of Valorite that were gilded onto gauntlets and shoulders- which no experienced hunter would have worn, even in this desolate excuse for the lands he had himself been birthed in. Pockets heaved with valuable material, the horseman smelt of fresh sweat and adrenaline- his brow still bore witness to a jagged scar he had picked up, no doubt from sparring at the training outpost thanks to Daddy’s discretion. His accent unpractised. “You are no doubt aware that these roads do not grant safe passage for the likes of you, old fool.” He remarked. He was greeted with silence, save for the urgent pleading of the wind. His eyes narrowed, and they betrayed him: They revealed his indecision. His heart skipped a beat. “Stand aside, lest I teach you the value of vigilance in the lands of Felucca!” He said, with a slight inflection. He leaned forward half-heartedly, one can only assume to jolt the ancient figure into compliance. But still, he stood, as the eddies of blackness swam around him. The knight swore he saw an arcing smile beneath the darkness of the hood. A whisper, barely audible, echoes from the old man’s lips. “Your name.” The Knight made to resist: he had no reason to divulge his name to this… this lowborn, he thought to himself. But the silence urged him; it urged him to respond. “Jaden”, he said, simply. “And tell me Jaden, how did you manage to procure your father’s permission for this pilgrimage of yours?” As anticipated, Jaden’s pallor whitened considerably. ”You mean to say, he does not know? He is unaware of your venture to the Dark Lands?” The young knight could feel the guilt surfacing within himself, seething within his stomach; and, finally, it slowly began to dawn on him that maybe he had made a mistake, that maybe he had never been a hunter at all. Twin fires shone from beneath the hood, fires that burned with contempt, an ageless apathy. A lusty mauve. Jaden’s mouth parted in abject horror. “You… you have my eyes!” Shadow swelled within the folds of the robe, the air around the menacing stranger had become thick with liquid ebony. “Your eyes.” he mused. “If only you could see what I hath seen, with your eyes. The rise and fall of Kings and nations, I see them now with the same crystal clarity as I can the rise and fall of your chest. Time is no great healer: as it flows like the passage of the blood, it consumes and renews, destroys and creates. A senseless waste? Perhaps. But to build anew, one must flay the old asunder. To truly begin; one must truly end. Come, let me show you.” The ancient man drew back his hood, and as he did so, Jaden began to fall from his steed, his head cradled in his arms. * * * The path extended out towards the horizon, filled with the false promise of new beginnings. Something old trod the path, undeterred, steadily nearing its destination. The ravaged foliage became thicker and more verdant, a huge Oak towering overhead signalled the next phase of his journey. And, lying sprawled in some half-forgotten ditch lay the unmoving cadaver of a man once called Jaden, whose breathless lips bore silent testimony to the value of vigilance. Written by Angelus Moon. ©

The Rhythms of Time – Part I. - Angelus Moon

Endings and Beginnings. The fiery orb which was the Sun of Sosaria slowly, agonisingly, descended behind the Solitary Mountains which cocooned the City of Outcasts. The crimson hues that danced across the mountain peninsula did not burn with hope, or with promise. They spoke in whispered tones of the encroaching night; they burned as funeral pyres do. And as the light struggled and writhed, inexorably, it succumbed to her- to the darkness. It was at this time of the cycle that Western Naeloth stirred, when things better left alone would rise of their own volition. But not tonight. Truthfully, it had not been thus for a long, long time. Nothing stirred, and to the casual onlooker, it might have appeared that death had gained a final foothold over the denizens of this place, those who sought to cheat the reaper of its prize. The only sound which echoed through the towers was the mournful wind, the only sight which might catch a spectator’s stare was the feral glare of twin eyes, a lone hunter who roamed the City. A lone hunter who waited, instinctively, biding his time. For the others. For ‘Him’. But Naeloth itself waited too. The shadows of the night encoiled themselves around its folds and gashes, gravitating into pools of liquid blackness, and as they did so, they seemed to look outwards with watchful intent, speaking in barely perceptible whispers, more quiet than the susurration of the blood. A tension hung in the air, and as the passage of time flowed onward, the tension was growing more and more prominent. For Naeloth knew something that no casual onlooker could: it knew that there was no time. There were only rhythms. As if to answer them, without warning, the dark, ruddy light of the moon Felucca rose between the folds of flesh that were the night. A dark pulsating hole, the bloody rift that captivated all who gazed upon her. She emanated a pungent, tangible aura, and as her limbs spread apart to envelop the lands that shared her name, one man pressed against her, riding into her embrace like an old lover. And he too shared her namesake. The shadows’ voices soared in harmony, the darkness shrank back in rapture, and the hunter, more out of instinct than any conscious thought, turned and glanced, glanced at the moon. A herald of things to come. A messenger. A dark angel of the night. And he smiled. * * * Written by Angelus Moon. ©