Zadown

Fools, mortal fools all of them .. what does one flickering flame mean against the darkness of the death that will swallow them all, leaving nothing behind? These have a chance to see infinite wisdom before their time comes, and still they are ready to let their fragile lifes go, to risk that to just help a few others, most broken beyond repair in any case... The Dreamer watched sullenly from the deep darkness beyond the area that the flames of the burning church illuminated, letting his thoughts race, face set on disapproving grimace that looked monstrous on his scarred head. Another part of his mind kept the forcefields that protected his mortal agents up, weaving the spells with the equivalent of mana whispers, trying to keep his unique signature out of the magic. CRACK! Something big and heavy gave up in the roof of the church, but the building still held, perhaps blessed somehow by whatever god the priests had served there. The planewalker shifted his stance slightly, got ready to receive the impact of stone and wood upon his enchantment. He spared a glance to the wounded, knowing that he could save most but that it would be useless and potentially endangering to the mission, then turned back to watch the church with the tiniest of shrugs. The church collapsed, Gyrfalcon, Timothy and Kaleyra still inside it.

The Dreamer rises his snow-white gaze from the Deck of Many Things he is playing solitaire with and appraises Bhurin as the angel speaks to fish for the memories of his old incarnations to find that face. Having found those memories, created by one or other of the Brothers Zadown, he slowly nods and flecks of silver swim in the white of his eyes. Slowly, not hurrying at all, he puts the cards back to the deck (and watches with amusement as they try to force their magic on him, the little pictures in the cards squirming and protesting) while Bhurin continues. When the newcomer finishes, the planewalker rises, walks to the bar, turns to grin to Bhurin and speaks with a loud deep voice: "Welcome to the Pen, m'lord." He then turns back, his scarred face still locked into a frightening grin. "One glass of God's Tears, bartender - the most expensive bottle you have, please."

“So, ye would like to know the story about the swords, lad? Ye old man sent ye, he did? Good… I guess yer old enough to hear it, then. Now, let me fetch a flagon o’ mead for me dry throat and make meself comfortable, and I’ll tell ye the tale...” A star falls. A bright spot of fire, trailing a long tail of flames, it glides through the night... “The magic is failing! Take us down as slowly as you can, Ash’aml!” “I will do my best, captain! But the sails are already ablaze and the hull is burning, too! We need a miracle!” ...a patrol camped near the mountains in eastern Ghamaast watches silently as the fire cuts a line across the night sky, staring up in wonder and in fear... “An elf overboard!” “Stop yelling and do your duty, soldier! The fires will not quench themselves!” “Aargh!” ...a lone mage in one of the tallest towers of Earanedon in Chaman looks to the north, at the trail of fire that looks like a wound in the celestial sphere, and feels how the lay lines of magic tremble slightly; he starts to mutter in various languages, cursing the omen... “I’m losing control, captain! I can’t bring her down safely!” (Silence and the crack and roar of flames) “Captain!?” ...a hunter in the central Phoenix Island is startled out of his dream and manages to glimpse the burning hulk of something as it speeds across the sky, now too close to look like a star, too fast to see properly... “AAIIEEEEE!!!” ...a shaman stands rooted in the darkness, listening the earth, feeling restless. Then she sees the great fiery colossal ship roaring through the air, oh so close now, and somebody drops from it, disappearing to the forest limbs flailing, and the short moment passes leaving only a few embers and a smell of smoke and burnt flesh only for a moment, then the wind takes even them away and the forest is silent for one moment. The shaman shakes her head, doubting what she just saw. And then a loud crash confirms the vision, earth shakes making her almost lose her footing and a yellow glow illuminates the forest in warm hues of bright coals, coming from the direction the thing was travelling. She senses the dying trees and crushed animals and cries once in pain, and then starts to run towards the glow. Stumbling at first, she gets her rhythm quickly and disappears to the forest with the stealth and ease of an owl. A tree grows in the forest. It is a large black oak in the middle of firs and some junipers, standing taller than any of them. Here, in this unnatural place, where a lingering smell of burning still stays, no noises can be heard – the forest is ominously silent. Lying in the grass beside the oak lays a long staff adorned with small bones and little pieces of fur, the trademark of a shaman. The staff looks darker in some places, as if it were sprayed by blood... Nearby, a hunter notices the absence of any animal life, and wonders the reasons for that, but continues on his course thinking that getting to the next village quicker is more important than some squirrel furs. He walks through the silent woods, and a fear starts to grow inside him, bred by the unnatural stillness of the place and some sixth sense. Being a fearless warrior (or so he keeps on telling to himself, as the icy grip of seemingly unnecessary fear tightens) he ignores the unspoken warning that has sent every animal away, and instead turns his course now towards the source of his uneasiness, determined to show no fear. And so he is the second human to stand in the new clearing, to smell the faint aroma of old ashes and to behold the great black oak. And the first to tell anybody else about it, in the village he was travelling to: mutters and moans and curses when rolling around in a bad fever, finally just whispers before merciful death comes. The man who tends his sickness is also a carpenter of the village, and a story about a big black oak sends him to the woods as soon as he could leave the funeral of the hunter. In his haste and excitement, he too travels straight as an arrow through the area permeated by the miasma of fear and appears to the clearing, looking upon the black oak with awe and craving. The tree looks like a carpenter’s dream, or a nightmare, and in the night he starts his work with it, bringing the mighty tree down after hours and hours of work. The wood appears to have qualities he has never seen before. A spark of imagination ignites in the carpenter’s weary head as he rests against the downed giant of a tree in the still hours of dawn, or perhaps the tree whispers to him, fallen but not truly dead. The carpenter falls asleep and starts to dream about swords... Thus, the swords made of darkwood are born – an omen of fire, a lost shaman and a black oak heralded them, and as great as the signs were, they pale compared to with what follows. The carpenter presents his first sword to his chief, the Tir of the village (it’s name now lost in times, erased from all the books to shroud the evils of the past in the mist) and he accepts it gladly, seeing that it is a weapon of might, and names it Bloodthorn. It is the first, and so the most of the essence of the tree go to it, and it shines black and wails when drawn. A weapon fit for the chiefs: a true scythe of souls in a battle, magnificent symbol of leadership in peace. So the other chiefs hear of the mighty weapon, and they see it when they gather to select the new Sjoentir, Chief of the Lake, and a craving is born in their hearts, similar to the one experienced by the carpenter when he first saw the black oak. One by one they come to meet with the maker of swords, as he is now known, and one by one they leave with lighter purses and heavier scabbards. Darkwood sword becomes the symbol of the chiefs and the heroes, and to carry one is to be something. There is only so much of the material fallen from the sky, though, and there comes the day when a warrior opens the door to the workshop of the maker and sees only the pale, dead body of the carpenter. The oak has transformed and needs the transformer no more. The swords are done, and new as they are, they are thirsty, too. They whisper to their owners in the night, creating dreams of conquest and heroism, and peace starts to chafe all those chiefs and heroes. They walk around restlessly and watch the sea, trying to see the lands beyond. In the autumn, the longest trees of the Island start to fall. The chiefs want boats. Winter comes and goes and spring, the time of the swords, starts. The black swords rise and fall in a countless of bloody raids, making heroes out of those who were just wealthy enough to buy one before, and elevating the true heroes of old to legendary status. A brotherhood of sword carriers seems to start out of nothing, a legion of heroes like the Island has never seen before. The spirits are high, and the star of the Phoenix Island seems to be on the rise. Blinded by the success and fortune in battle, only a few see the shadows lurking in the corners of the future... While the sword carriers are waging war, everything is as it should be. The ancient debts to the gloomy folk of Ghamaast are paid in blood once and twice, some of the more bold seafarers venture out as far as Lam-Roo, and one successful raid against the wizards of Chaman is done, the only one in the memory of even the elders of the tribe. The berserks of the Phoenix Island bathe the nearby shores in blood and they do it well. When the fires burn themselves out and the heroes return, a tension grows. First it is a mere hint of violence in the air, a side effect of the war, a battle returning to haunt as a nightmare. Then a sword carrier quarrels with a warrior, the warrior shouts to his wife, the wife to the children. Violence is now the other common language. The shamans speak first against the new way of diplomacy, but the tribes are as enchanted and ignore the wiser ones, and so they fade into the woods. The voice of the forest and reason is silenced. The time of the swords ends, and then the time of the blood starts. Man is wary of another man, and no one trusts the peace of Djaenorl, the capital city, any more. Dead bodies bearing the wounds of a weapon, more often made by a sword than an axe are found. Phoenix Island turns upon itself, clawing and gnawing. And it grows worse every passing day: blood feuds, duels and drunken brawls, whole raiding parties killing themselves, dark shapes prowling the summer nights, deaths, deaths, deaths. Eyes open, finally, to the wrongness of the situation, and some seek the guidance of the shamans, but they are nowhere to be found. In many places, nothing is done – the swords are in the hands of the leaders and heroes, and they speak through them: nothing is wrong. Still, it takes months for most to connect the Curse of the Phoenix Island (as it will be known) to the swords. Many of the too wise are slain in the night, and in some places pure terror paralyses the villages. To add to the destruction and chaos, the raided lands retaliate. Ghamaast sends it’s finest men, clad in metal and hardened in the mountain battles against orcs and trolls; from Lam-Roo comes a single attack aided by the mages of Chaman, an attack of raining fire and skilled knights leading their best man-at-arms. The forests of Phoenix Island are soaked in the blood and this time most of it is their own. The last straw is the stories about the transformations. Travellers tell tales about chiefs (always of some distant village, left unnamed) leaving in the night, carrying their blood-soaked darkwood swords, and becoming as beasts, howling to the moon. The listeners touch their axes and pointedly look away from each other, wanting to doubt but knowing very well the truth. The separation of the axes and the swords starts. It happens first in the south, where the swords are few and the axes hear disturbing tales from the north. The chief, the only warrior in a small village who is a sword, is confronted and he changes in front of the whole village, in front of a dozen warriors from other places, in the glaring and exposing light of the sun. The burly warrior roars as his flesh grows and twists into a new shaped, growing horns, muscles and thicker skin, turning into a monster. It is the beginning in the battle against the Curse, and this time the enraged axes bite deep and quick. One victory is not much in this war, but it is the start. Axes travel south and join the tribal army surging north, killing the chiefs and heroes of the island, wiping out the new legends that had just born, and doing it with a righteous fury. Among the chaos, new heroes are born and die and entire villages burn to ashes and are lost - Phoenix Island pays for it’s folly, and it pays a dear price. Many of the dead are more fortunate than their living brothers and fathers, sisters and mothers. The War of the Curse walks over the island and turns it from a working tribal nation to a charnel house of nightmares... ...and after a long, dark night, the nightmare finally ends. It all started in few months and the disease spread fast, but now curing it takes longer. The actual war burns out in mere months, but half of the swords just fade out to the woods, and open warfare turns to a game of hunter and the hunted. From time of blood to the time of the shadows; and the shadows have teeth and claws, they stab with swords and drag you away to where ever they came. And so the Curse continues as a beast in the forest, a fear in the eye of a warrior and distrust toward any stranger. “There was an end to it, aye, and I know that story too – but still, it is another story, the story of the last heroes of the axes, of the hunt and the final battle, of the great shaman and his sacrifice and of the green oak. Perhaps, I’ll tell that story too … some other day, that is. Now ye know the story of why we don’t use swords, lad, and beware of any of us who does. There might be a shard of the Curse still around...”

(OOC: Hi Bhurin and welcome to the Pen - it is a pleasure to see you here! )

Heroes of some god - I should have used more magic .. but at least the searchers shouldn't notice the little that I did. The Dreamer switched his katana to his left hand and flicked his right almost absently, and the effect of the symbol the priestess had used on Gyrfalcon dissipated. He didn't so much as look at the half-elf, confident in his magic but sighing inwardly at the same time. Knowing that he had to do it, he folded his magical senses away and let the forcefields fade to mask again his presence here. That done he looked around with pure white eyes surveying the destruction and realized that the building would collapse any minute now. It would not really hurt him. Standing there in the middle of chaos he felt being in his own element, almost as home as on the Lost Paths, but he knew his fragile allies would not survive the fall of the roof on them. So he rised his deep voice to shout for the first time since coming to this plane: " Gyrfalcon! Timothy! Kaylera! ... follow me, please." With his katana on his right hand again, slung carelessly on his shoulder, the Dreamer walked away from the church through the door Gyrfalcon had opened, his still dazed companions trailing after him.

Magic. This will mask some of the things I will do. As the explosions rocked the church, the Dreamer let his battle rage loose. He grasped his katana via Astral from the weapon storage with pure instincts and simultaneously did a full scan of the area with his now magic-enchanted senses, noticing Kaylera for the first time but not pausing to wonder it. Straining to concentrate even in the rage, he managed to cast a quick spell of protection which covered Gyrfalcon, Timothy and Kaylera in slightly shimmering forcefields. After that, he lost his rationality and just surged towards the nearest threat. The paladin had barely time to turn around to face him. The last thing the armored warrior saw was a scarred man, eyes ruby-red, clad in tattered old robes but holding a beautiful green katana expertly before that man, the Dreamer, skewered him with one preternaturally quick thrust and continued with a decapitating blow that made the paladin's helmeted head soar high above the chaos of the carnage. The Dreamer flicked blood away from his blade and looked for next target to kill.

The Dreamer looked at the other adventurers and Jakob with yellow eyes and gestured impatiently. "I do not like that Jagon-creature, but since we seem to be intent on moving along at a snail's pace, it doesn't matter much to me if we go to listen to the speech or no. Perhaps he truly tells us some useful information, although I strongly suspect it." He ignored the reactions of the others and started to walk towards the main chamber, eerie flickers of runaway magic manifesting as small sparks of light following him. A speech... Jagon isn't what he looks like, I'll have to keep an eye on my mortal travelling companions in case the speech is something else entirely...

So you are 14 years old?! Aww, I wrote crap when I was 16, and that was more than half a dozen years ago... just keep on writing and I'll wait to hear the sound of WHOOOSH! as your talent goes past mine.

The Dreamer looked back at Gyrfalcon, his eyes shifting to yellow. "You are the one who has more experience of talking with mortals, at least more than me. I have the means but not the desire to interrogate him my way, especially since that might just burn out his mind and not tell us anything ... you mortals are sometimes more fragile than you are stubborn." The cold smile on the planewalker's face told more than his words. "But if you wish and deem it the most useful method, I can always try my ways with him."

Depends what kind of hero you are, how many enemies you make and what exactly is "old age" for you...

This is a translated CMX song - I didn't write it. Rust hey look how slowly everything goes but years are short and when moon and sun are together in the sky I collect everything on the yard and burn so books and papers maybe also furniture and memories all the lies that bar the road of life all the good that prevents from seeing it is rust smoke licks the ruins you know how it feels to warm your hands in the ashes of burnt homes hey look how slowly it rains again dust over mountains maybe even these murderer's hands seek a head to pet and feel the weight of the world it is rust

When leaving his weapon to the paladin, the Dreamer muttered an activation word and smiled inwardly when a rune shone brighter than the others for a fleeting moment. I hope nobody touches my weapon ... the Benefical Dragon has a nasty bite even when I do not wield it. He walked behind the others and sat down after Timothy, looking slightly annoyed at the slowness of everything as usual. When Jakob had finished speaking, the Dreamer made a quick sideways chopping motion with his right hand and spoke before Gyrfalcon or Timothy had time to speak. His eyes darkened as his almost barked: "New Muriska is irrelevant. We were sent here by Saint Derick to ask about Rainbow Vale, to find the Pool of Eternal Reflection. Tell us what you know." He stared at the monk.

I am a god of course every move graceful poem euphoria inducing short story piece of art I can't live with others for my ego needs room I can't vote because none of them are worth my blessing I say that I study but I already know everything worth knowing and then some and I do not worship of course not for I am a god

I am calm as if I had just lived dead have no words they just look behind them silent and serene the horizont of activity goes away and stays where it is taking the light with it illusion of a grave is soon perfect

The Void was on fire, red and yellow and purple flames dancing in the nothing. The flames blocked his sight on all levels, and the Dreamer was frowning, trying to see through with his blood-red eyes. I know you are there, Ignir. Come out and play with me, demon. You have tracked me for so long that I am starting to lose patience... He felt something, had a blurry vision of the future where a single flame burned alone in the middle of the night, and with reflexes honed in hundreds of battles he side-stepped in a fraction of a second. Past him, coming from the opaque sheet of heat, roared a brilliant and deadly spark of hellfire. The comet of fire brushed him lightly as it missed him, sending a jolt of pain and the shock created by the touch of hell coursing through his body. His conscious mind shut down and he entered true battle trance.

I seek fire I would like to draw a picture with it fill a waiting space with words paint my views for others to see the oven clinks food is ready I let the inspiration wait

day is blue glass yellow fire it draws shadows to the streets proclaims the coming of spring rises a smile to the faces of the crowd my sunglasses are missing their metallic brown masks wait dim darkness in some corner of my apartment I can't be bothered to worry the weather is way too beautiful shards of light tickle my eyes rise the pressure inside my head cut with their blades my spirit but I manage to grin tinted with falsehood every darkness a brief oasis angular building a shield against brightness plains on fire burning my mind my words grow taunt hammers batter my vision yellows drink other colors I am a shade rupturing under sky challenging evening to come annoyance and hatred it takes my wit tears my lips open blind rage

I close my eyes for a moment feel something unnamed flow away behind me kindles the cloak of dreams I can see inside items I rise a lighter to the air under my fingers ripples concentrated fire I glance at an angel hung up on the wall in front of me opens a gate to another world imaginary points of light orbit me non-existent shadows dance around objects and music quivers in the air a series of photos darkened by the sound I let the words go I release the visions and sigh myself back to reality

I hear the bed prowling stalking me sneaking closer hunting it's scouts first heralds of sleep cajole gently my eyes hum to my ears a wordless lullaby clock allies with it ticking gets softer changes to the metronome of my body tries to fade away I can still rise my fingers my wit cuts words to the screen increased gravity does not glue my legs to the chair I am my own master yet but I can see the misty lines of the puppet master wings of the slumber deeper than daydreams footsteps to the center of my bedroom I can hear the whisper of mythical creatures feel the softness and with a smile I let myself go

rows of scientists herd evil spirits before them cast the world again from steel and stone mutter to their beards spells that kill mysteries the wolf that ate the sun was overrun by the movements of the moon black death the fury of ancient gods was claimed by rats and bacteria spoons do not bend by force of will ether has been written away and fire can burn without phlogiston everything shrinks to formulas scripts written in the poetry of mathematics symbols and operators but still there walk among us those who can see behind the surfaces to whom coincidences are the magic of the mundane they set us free from the shackles of the day they paint before us views from places that are not they are our dreams

I throw words to the air like bright stones they form a picture when they fall and I am fascinated as a child I do it again again they draw something better than me ever I get tired of the game I grimace and throw my colors away they form a picture when they fall like a curse clinging to me my stomach twists I look around seeing the world with new eyes it is a poem now feeling scared I take all my tools built from letters pour them far from me they form a picture when they fall I stop resisting

the apartment is full of us me one by one they laugh at each other walk away from the border of brilliance seek the thing which is beyond it with striped eyes groping hands legs wooden heads full of pictures the steel one most solid of all calls them one by one with their splintered names and they bend like bubbles let their faces be illuminated a moment in the last begging vision vanish back to possibilities without a fight but there are a lot of us one writes and metal locks the fingers second dances to the mirror until iron stiffens the legs fourth cuts himself disfigured only to have his scissors rebound from the hardness it doesn't let us go no no even when we suffocate it in laughter

Posting this is Gwaihir's fault - you can all blame him. Written ages ago, during RL and emotional winter. pain is my tool I've practiced it's use I look for happiness inside me even beauty would do but my fingers grasp nothing but the flames have a story to tell blood whispers words without pause and the void has a meaningful face none of us is a sentence nobody can be caught with a few words perhaps I am still a monotonous bell cast for a singular purpose to herald the night and black to echo with hushed tones in my sound an unseparable longing burial of hope I can play with ease

The Dreamer laughed loudly, making the tiny and well-hidden pocket dimension reverberate from the force of the sound. Eyes shining like two golden moons, he let his head fall backwards and his body roar with laughter as he leaned on the crystal which marked the border between inside and the Void. Around him, errant shadows moved around the place, a shard of an ancient plane of darkness, one of his many hideouts in the wide multiversum. The look on Festion's face when I hit him hard was almost worth all this trouble! I've never liked anything that is quicker than me on the Lost Paths. Too bad I had no time to retrieve my pupil, but Festion is in no shape to get him either, not for a few weeks at least. Three - zero on the scar department, stupid archangel, three - zero... The Dreamer's laughter waned, but a big grin stayed on his face as he turned his magically augmented senses towards the far-away Sigil and everything between it and him. He felt/saw/heard planes (far-away pearls against black velvet) auras of a few errant travellers (bright blotches of color in the night, telling everything about the less careful creatures and telling only lies about those who knew how to mask themselves) and stranger things ... and things he was looking for. His grin turned into a grimace. We are half a multiversum away and still they are after me. Valdar must've stolen something valuable ... or perhaps they were just bored, or irritated by my constant presence in these parts. Makes me almost wish I had some allies there in the Astral, and not just a few bound servants and a lot of enemies. The golden eyes started to shift in color to darker hues and the planewalker probed the nothingness between planes with gentle spells, trying to see without being seen. The Void, usually a dangerous desert, was now boiling with activity, making it even more hazardous place to move. The hunt was on, and he was the main prize. Time to run. I'll have to check on my pupil later, if I have the time. With a long sidestep he exited the pocket dimension and started to run along the Lost Paths once again.

The Dreamer was oblivious to the surroudings as they rode through the town. His eyes had been slowly changing from the more neutral hues of green and blue towards darker, redder colors for a long time now. This entrapment is eating away my self-control. Sooner or later it will snap, no matter what I do. That will mean dead bodies which is of no consequence, but it will also mean that the trackers will see the resulting flash of power .. and my signature all over it. That would be unfortunate... The planewalker shut his eyes for a moment, trying to contain the rising feeling of rage against the unseen and unfelt self-imposed fetters that chained him to this place. As he focused on the rage, he distantly felt some minor magic bleed from between his inner shields. The errant energy manifested itself as ghastly translucent illusionary shapes of demons capering around the pained-looking Dreamer, dissipating slowly at the same time as the planewalker fought against his inner demons. The struggle was brief and didn't show, but when the Dreamer opened his eyes they were the blood-red of violence once again, thin fiery lines between his eyelids. Rage had won. At that point, both Gyrfalcon and Timothy were staring at him, alerted by the ghost-shapes that something was amiss and looking slightly pale - they didn't like the feeling of this. He turned to look first at Gyrfalcon, then at Timothy and spoke with a voice nearly like a snarl: "Who do I have to kill for this journey to proceed quicker?" Gyrfalcon met the gaze. "I doubt killing anybody helps, Dreamer. We will get to the pool when we get there. Just try to hold on." The Dreamer shut his eyes completely and stood perfectly still for some time, this time without any added special effects. When he opened his eyes they were the chilling deep blue of the Void again, his voice falsely calm: "If you say so, m'lord Gyrfalcon. You'd better pray some god I haven't killed yet that you are right."