This is both my first solo anime story and my first posted story to the
ffml. Please respond privately with C&C. This story will not be caring
regarding cannonization characterization so comments regarding that are
unnecessary, albeit the prelude does not allow for much given that those
characters do not even enter yet. This is written specifically for Fox's
Bet, so ignore the start up for regarding that, or you can comment on it,
all is welcome. Please pardon some of the odd symbols and whatever problems
result from it originally being in rtf, couldn't seem to get that program
that filters out the stuff. almost any weird marks can be considered "..."
no quotations.
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-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
-- File: Fox's Bet Entry Heretic's bet.txt
Hello friends, sit and watch a while, this shall be an entry of particular
interest, it is being recorded by myself for posterity, after all it is my
entry to the bet. Any comments regarding this story ought be sent to
Dracos12@hotmail.com. Any who want to contact me online should go to the
forum at www.excesscomics.com, leave a message, I am on there for most of
the afternoon. Any flames ought be left at the door. Any who complain
about cannonization will lose their head. Any who give constructive
critcism, compliments, well thought out ideas or arguments will be thanked.
My position ought be now clear.
Disclaimer: There are a bunch of series in here, most I choose to forget
whom originally owned. just consider that going after a writer who is an
avid follower of these series is not a good way to keep fans. I can at
least make a certainty roll that characters or elements from: Breath of
Fire, Sailor Moon, Ranma 1/2. More might cross paths with this at a later
point, maybe some will step on it, or step over it, perhaps even get stepped
on by it. Just enjoy the trip into the realm of fantasy and worry not about
such petty details.
Fox the Wanderer is the owner of the Fox's Bet deal, so I will let him
introduce himself here, after all he will also be hosting all of these
stories so ye wonderful souls can read them:
[intro Fox, including website]
Heretic's Bet
It was dark, and it was cold^� Eyes were drawn as a particularly strange god
entered the betting area of Fox. His draconian visage showing wisdom that
often belied what one would assume from one such as him. The betting area
shifted, appearing similar to a darker form of the well of Mimir, assuming
the form as the reality is shaped by the will of the new god. Kitsune's
blue ears quivered in the new environment, reacting to the sudden wind
coming from the pool. Nine stones of power appeared, each on a pedestal.
"Hello, Fox", Called the figure, "I, Dracos, God of Heresy, wish to make an
observation into your bet. A test of faith, if you will. As one may note,
true faith is oh so rare these days, so perhaps I shall see if one such as I
am even needed anymore by mortals. Watch this world, a constant struggle
between the forces of light and darkness, beauty fighting monstrosity in a
never-ending struggle. They think they fight for 'love and justice',
perhaps though, they merely fight to show their faith in a future. But how
strong is this faith, how quickly could it be replaced, shattered in an
instant. Shall we see, friendly wanderer?"
Kitusne, watching the newcomer experiences a shiver down her back,
responding back "What do you intend to use your 9 chronostones for?"
"Hmm^� To have a true test of faith requires gods, both true and false,
representing the two desperate ends all seek in their faith, Hope and
Desperation. I shall bring about several changes, one after another, to
test this faith. My first stone will be the most complex." The draconian
visage appeared to smirk, "I wonder if you will even notice in Lanford."
With a quick motion, the draconian figure of Dracos tossed the stone,
bouncing twice, and sinking appearing to accomplish nothing.
Kitsune, "Hmm^� exactly what did that stone do, something must have changed,
and my name's Kitsune in this form, even if I look like Lanford. I see a
few new empty land masses, and little abandoned desert areas, but nothing
really interesting."
Looking at the wanderer, Dracos laughed, "Surely you wouldn't think that
such a complex change would show any such obvious marks of it's importance,
that is the work of a blunt change. I have merely linked two realities
together, forging one as the past of another. Since only a single change
can occur per stone, the world itself in the present does not change to much
since the rules regarding the added landmasses would cause them not to exist
except as rumors and legends and, after all, everyone with the ability to
effect the future in the added past dies according to their original
schedule. And anyway, would one think a being such as I would miss watching
the end of a people who has lost their faith?"
Kitsune, "No, you wouldn't." Shuddering at his ability to derive pleasure
from such sad antiquity. "So what was the purpose of the stone if any
change is negated by the passage of time?"
Laughing once more, "You shall see wanderer, watch carefully now." Dracos
tossed two more stones. "Now we shall provide the false gods, Hope and
Desperation, after all if they never died, they certainly can provide the
first tests of faith for those who fight for a new future. The Second stone
shall provide them a false goddess, an offering a hope, of safety, only
asking for peace. Yet, the cost of this peace would destroy their future.
Ha, look already the future they sought has died, fallen to false dreams^�
but I shall give them the full measure, all the changes shall be made and
then we shall watch. The third shall awaken He Who Sleeps Forever, a dark
god, child of the Hope, living beneath the mountains, trapped there in near
death since his battle with one who understood true faith. After all, both
of these are beings of true power, whom may alter the course of events by
their mere existence in that time. It shall be interesting whether when all
the stones are thrown, if the Warriors of Love and Justice will be able to
distinguish the true faith, or fall prey to false promises, since their
original future will never come about now."
Kitsune, seeing who was awakened experienced a momentary face fault. "Your
insane, bringing Them back. They will certainly destroy the world, with no
one nearly strong enough to defeat them. And have you forgotten the rules,
'everyone dying' or wasting away in eternal agony is definitely a dark-fic."
Her hair was raising now a few inches above her head through her agitation.
Dracos, "Hmm^� it seems you also have little faith and understanding, both in
the way I work and the power of the human spirit, but we shall see. And I
have not broke the rules, after all each stone shall get it's throw. After
all, I never cheat, each stone will have but a single charge behind it, not
two like that Jefferson fellow." Quickly, two more stones are thrown. "Now
we shall bring two gods of truer colors, one false and one true, both
weakened by the passage of time. One by the loss of human faith, the other
by the years of age. Will the Courage and Wisdom of the Ages prevail over
the false gods, yet also this is ascertained, for never shall the warriors
survive without true faith these perils, so two more changes shall I make,
twin charges of destiny."
Kitsune, "And what would that be, something that will change this from it's
gloomy world destruction ending? It is looking more and more like a dark
bet to me."
Dracos, neglected to respond, staring deeply into the faux Mimir's well,
"How to change this so faith is shown, a challenge between faith of true
form and faith of false gods. After all, true faith was what defeated the
two dark gods, harnessing the might of Courage and Wisdom, and bringing
together the strength of his friends."
Kitsune, "So what exactly do you intend to do. Each of your changes has
been overall subtle, but it looks like you've backed yourself into a corner.
Unless something major is added to the mix, this will all end in darkness
and destruction."
Dracos snorted, small flames appearing from his nostrils. Then smiled, a
particularly evil smile which would have caused most to flee. He watched
carefully the movement of the waters of time, then, blurring two stones hit
the same moment, sinking quickly into the water. "That shall do it, there
will be a chance for redemption, evil, good, faith, friendship, and a Quest
for Destiny. With those stones, I shall bring him back, reincarnation, a
simple trick. He shall provide the power, if aided by their faith. Now my
query will be answered, will humans fall for the false faith of gods, true
and false, good and evil, or shall they form a true faith from their trust
in each other. Show them the path, O' Destined Child, and we shall watch
and see if they have strength to climb it. He shall have all the strength
and knowledge he needs, but only their faith will see them through."
Kitsune, "But didn't it take tremendous magical power to unleash the
strength within him the first time?", shaking her head, considering the
mortal in question.
Dracos, "bah, what do you think I am, some amateur? I used two stones; one
to bring a copy of his existence forward to this time, the other is used to
give him everything he shall need from within. The 'hero' shall have all he
needs, but only his friends will be able to climb the path. After all even
if I refuse to view the end, I will always make sure it begins how I intend,
unlike some fools at the last bet."
Kitsune, "So what about your other two chronostones, aren't you going to use
them?"
"Hmm^� how to make the final changes, something that shall require
simplicity, elegance. A change that will provide the last link for true
faith, the simple factor of timing." Dracos then smiled again, flinging a
stone just so. It bounced in a circle around the water before sinking
beneath the waves. "There, a single change, at a late point, bringing
everything together, at the right time."
Kitsune was able to see directly what this one did, and was quite puzzled at
the apparent waste of a stone. "What good does it do to merely move all the
events to finish at the time of Awakening, wouldn't that negate the point of
your entry anyway? And what do you plan with the last one? You are going
to use it, right?"
Dracos, "Alas, one cannot test true faith by burning it, it must be forged,
only the strongest and purest flames can do such, removing the impurities
are essential in such delicate work. And to the last stone, We shall see my
friend, we shall see. After all, if it all does not work out, I merely
remove the single change at the beginning, forcing all the other changes to
miss, reverting the reality back to it's base form. I am not totally
heartless in my experiments."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prelude 1: The darkness in the depths
It was dark, and it was cold. Darker than the darkest night, cold enough
to freeze the human heart, here was where it all began. A place which one
could discern nothing but darkness, where light had never touched. It was
here a being more ancient than the mountains has slept for ages. If one
could see the room, it would appear pleasant enough, though out of place
with its surroundings. A walkway of stone would appear to hover, supported
by something beyond mortal comprehension, from the single opening in the
room, hanging over a dark abyss and ending mysteriously in the middle of the
room. The opening was not an opening at all in fact, but a door, appearing
from this side to be forged of bone, and capped with skulls, a truly hideous
construct. Runes of incredible power had been carved on this door though,
yet one would find they did not glow, except to enhance the darkness around
them. If one was to stand on the walkway and look up, the darkness there
would oppress them, freezing their spirits and draining their hope, for not
a single ray of light was allowed here, the ceiling being merely an aura of
darkness. If one was capable of seeing anything in this hideous darkness
one might notice the impressive crystals, standing every twenty or so paces
on each side on top of the stone sides of the walkway. If one was truly
observant one might notice that it would appear as if a human skull could be
seen in each one, contorting in various forms of suffering, in a state of
eternal agony, as one's angle with the beautiful crystals changed. If one
was truly mad one might look over the edge, into the dark abyss below.
Perhaps one would see nothing, merely feeling a sense of desperation at the
hopelessness emanating from the chasm. Mayhaps one would see various
paintings, on the sides of the wall, working there way down, getting far
more horrible as they went, depicting some of humanities most shameful
moments in complete relief. One might see anything, perhaps even a painting
of one's own life, and a sense of dread will fill you. The desperation
would grow greater, one would find it suddenly hard to move, and why bother
anyway, you exist but to die. But perhaps you would be one of truly
magnificent strength, your proud will fighting off the eternal hopelessness
and dread emanating, and you would continue looking, perhaps seeking
whatever bottom there was to the darkness, for after all, all pits have a
bottom, a point to which they can go no further, else they cleave the very
earth in two. But to this dark pit one would never see an end, for after
all, one is not watching merely darkness, but something truly of the dark.
One might begin to notice the sense of evil, of wrongdoing that flowed
around the room. Maybe a wise one would have fled by now, but then a wise
one never would have entered. A last glance down to the darkness and one
with super-natural sight might just see something, stirring in the abyss.
Then one's heart would begin to slow, slower and slower, finally stopping as
a darkness even darker then the impenetrable night of the room begins to
become clear, a shadow relief within the darkness. Maybe if one was a near
god, someone of such strength that all but the strongest demons would flee
at your approach, you might hear a whisper^� Such a soft whisper^� filled
with anger^� malevolence^� despair. One would know suddenly, right then that
one would never encounter an evil darker than this^� As eternally, a single
word is whispered in the room, something made all the darker for the hope
contained within, reverberating within one's soul, speaking of the hope of
death that all mortals bear when faced with ultimate evil. A soft,
malevolent voice, whispered for all eternity^� it's hope and it's despair,
the one whom shall set it free^� "Nikanoru".
Yet, now even as one would die, something changes^� life filters ever so
slowly as a single aspect changes, in a place where nothing may live,
nothing may move. It be but a single flicker, no more than force than an
eye raising not even the smallest fraction of an inch. But, what is this,
one change is followed by another, and yet more. The darkness swirls,
almost as if it was in celebration, yet at the same time in agony. The
darkness becomes even more oppressive, the stale air, millennia old would
finally lose its battle, being absorbed by the darkness. A vacuum would
seem to form, yet nothing would really seem to change as the room would
appear as it always has been, a walkway, a door, and the darkness. Slowly
though the changes would accumulate, shifting something, that never was to
move again. The Accursed Sleep would end, but not now, no for even the
power of the darkness was matched and surpassed by such power that placed it
here, below the earth, in a prison. This prison was something nothing
should have survived, yet the darkness thrived here. Hidden from the prying
eyes of the innocent, a relic of days gone by stirred softly in its sleep,
forced slumber from a battle ancient even by those who might have recalled
it. But who would know, whom would believe, something so beyond the ken of
mortal men. As the years would pass the changes would accumulate further, a
slow waking. For it is true that the smallest ant could crush a mountain,
for a mountain is nothing but a pile of incredibly small pebbles, which in
turn are nothing but a pile of incredibly small particles of dust. Even the
impossible may be achieved in a long enough period of time, after all what
is an impossibility if not something beyond the efforts of those around, yet
if it is a limitless effort, it would never occur, so merely it must be an
effort astounding in its proportions, and that great effort will break down
into little efforts, small acts, and those too shall be seen as even
smaller, such small things as a human tear, could change the course of the
impossible. As a sage once said, "Give me a lever, and a place to stand,
and I shall move the world.". Perhaps what is necessary is not a tool, but
rather a plane, an eternity of time, for if patience was allowed for,
couldn't the impossible, eventually form from the smallest acts of the
possible. But this is merely a foray into other possibilities. What we
witness here is something that is very similar, but also as dissimilar as a
butterfly from a stone, one flying in the air, aloft upon the wind currents,
one trapped upon the ground, never allowed to take flight by itself. For
even as the butterfly, strong and beautiful in it's small complexity, starts
off bound by the earth, a mere caterpillar, unable to move from it's prison.
What would one whom was never was allowed to fly, be like. Perhaps it
would be bitter, hateful, maybe, hoping beyond hope, it would find happiness
on the ground. Perhaps this darkness would never awaken, for might it be
like the stone, trapped for all eternity beneath the mountains of the world,
a forgotten monument to hatred, despair, and most importantly death.
Flowing again in the shadows, "Nikanoru", perhaps this phrase is the name of
it's creator, the one who designed something so horrible, yet filled with a
dark beauty beyond mere mortal comprehension.
Now something has obviously changed, for as seconds become minutes, minutes
hours, hours days, days years, years millennia, perhaps the smallest change,
a single particle of dust, could shift others, which in turn would shift
those around them, each in turn shifting still more, until the mountain
crumbles under it's own weight. Maybe at first the darkening would merely
stir, never actually awakening, then eventually the stirring would shift
more darkness, change can be a dangerous thing. Perhaps a particle of dust
would enter into the darkness, causing it to stir still more. Alas^� with
time perhaps the darkness would come close to awakening, and knowing its
plight, would seek to remedy it, calling out to those who have aided it in
the past, seducing new followers from the present, and with it's soft voice,
singing the despair^� "Nikanoru".
Perhaps in the darkness a shape would manifest, a shape most fitting for
that which was occurring. A single eye. Huge in it's majesty, shut for all
eternity. Yet watch closer, even this new phase, this single manifestation
stirs, shaking ever so slightly, one would think it never moved. A single
last effort perhaps, to come back and awaken, or maybe something more, a
darker reckoning foretold by the gray lines which cross with the blue,
forming an awe inspiring pattern upon the dark eyelid. It stays there,
hovering above the platform, for a day, a month, perhaps even years, for
what is time to eternity, nothing more than a measure of what has passed, or
maybe it is the hope of what is to come. Yet the stirring of the eye,
slowly, such that even the sharpest sight could miss this foreboding
darkness, could shift a grain of dust, falling from the upper walls. After
all the darkness exists touching everything, and if the stirring can fell a
single particle, why not two or three. Maybe most of them would simply fall
to the abyss, never having any effect, but then perhaps one or two would
touch the eye, the harsh grains rubbing over the scaly hide of the lid.
Maybe it would be enough to awaken He Who Sleeps, merely for a moment, for
the wards are strong, and the darkness, large and tired, would be slow to
awaken. Perhaps when it opened one would see an eye like any other. Maybe
as it opened, a beauty beyond compare would be revealed, a dark pupil, sharp
and vertical, almost invisible in the orange that surrounds it, filled with
the lightest strands of red. The central part of the eye might be
surrounded by a dark purple lining, almost giving the illusion of a
spherical gem, priceless in comparison to all before it. Then the eye might
open even further, showing that what you believed to be the eye before was
merely a small part, like a pinprick, upon the majesty of the full eye,
gleaming a malevolent green, surrounded by lines of the purest blue of the
sky filtered with the white lines of clouds. Perhaps one would still hear
the whisper, "Nikanoru", and maybe now it would seem like a plea, a cry from
a long forgotten god. But this notion would pass quickly, as the rage of
the dark god filtered through your soul. A need would be felt, stronger
than any desire, as a voice would pass through your head. Fear would
follow, striking you down. Demons around the world would hear the voice,
the call of the dark one, and rejoice, listening for the words of this most
dread lord. Even a spirit would be paralyzed by the need in it's words "^�I
have not enough strength^� Give Yourself to god, Become God's Strength. Pray
to God. Praise God. You must become God's strength." And you would find
yourself desiring to serve this god, this majestic being in front of you.
You would rip out your own heart if it still beat and prostrate yourself in
offering before the god. Yet while it would hear you and accept your
strength, it would not yet awaken again, for with a final, "Nikanoru", it
would slumber once more. Some demons would be confused, for was this not
the time of destiny, in which the dark god would walk the earth in its full
glory. Some would nod knowingly, understanding what was ordered. These
would be far older and more dangerous than the those who could not yet
understand. And then there would be the ancients, those who served the god
in times pasts, who would once again be the word, raised from the hideous
resting places, they would tame the world, in order to resurrect their god.
And a single one, wiser than any demon, eldest among the eldest, ancient as
the dark god himself, perhaps more so, would rise up. He would go, knowing
what was to come, and knowing his destiny, seeking to change neither, the
nightmare would arise once more. Perhaps^�. Perhaps "Nikanoru" is not a man,
nor a feeling, perhaps it is a destiny.
And a small child would cry, not understanding what was to come, but
feeling the sadness nonetheless.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prelude 2: The forgotten kingdom of the sands
Deep within the deserts, hidden within the unmarked changes in the world.
Is a city, no not even that now, maybe it was once, maybe it slowly filtered
away, from a city to a town, a town to a village, to the nigh abandoned
stone grave it be today. Maybe if one was quick with one's eyes, one might
catch a quick glimpse of the few remaining villagers, the last remnants of a
once mighty and great people. Perhaps you might even see one or two truly
peculiar villagers, bearing black scaled wings upon their backs. A truly
observant visitor might notice that this would appear to be a holy shrine,
with the city built around it, yet nothing truly permanent except for the
shrine itself, the walls and a few rouged stone buildings. A gleam from the
sun would catch the eye of one who walked there, bringing ones to face where
the shrine entrance should be, at the top of the building, yet what is this,
merely a stone mirror, nothing to be worth time or worship. Albeit a closer
look would awe the visitor with its craftsmanship. Carved from the purest
stone, even the most knowledgeable traveler would be at a lost to determine
exactly what the stone is made from, it seeming akin to all other stone, yet
somehow something much greater. Perhaps one shall see a wave pass on the
smooth surface of the mirror, almost as if the stone was water and a single
droplet of water had disturbed the peaceful tranquility. But then it would
be gone, forgotten, relegated to a mere trick of the eyes, for stone cannot
shift itself like water, so your eyes must be the fault. Then one's eyes
would be drawn to the border of this beautiful stone mirror, with twin
dragonheads mounting the top and bottom of the artifact. Perhaps a quick
eye would see them move, ever so slightly, but our friendly visitor would
never notice this. Maybe he would notice the distinct craftsmanship in the
dragonheads, something beyond the abilities of any mortal object. Perhaps
one would come to the conclusion that the shrine is there for the mirror, a
holy artifact, sent down from a god. And one would not be far off, for as
one would watch the mirror, the mirror would also watch you. Maybe one
would notice that the empty well in the center of this town, directly before
the temple, something you would wonder you missed before. And for a second
you would feel absurd about looking at it, for after all, it is only a well,
a place for drinking, it couldn't have a greater purpose in existing. But
then one would be wrong and have missed perhaps some of the last remaining
histories of a once great tribe. But our visitor is quite observant, seeing
how the stone surrounding the outer edges of the well almost appears as if
it was carved. Looking closer it would appear as if these were steps, and
being curious, one might travel down this path of hewn stones. As one
travels, past a few rooms that appear merely to distract one from seeing
anything important, one may come to a long corridor. In this corridor would
be twin masterpieces, beautiful in the art portrayed. Each portraying a
battle, with a single man, blue-haired, wielding a mighty blade with a
single hand, guiding a small force, each member unique and different, their
very working together a miracle in itself. On one side would be portrayed a
hideous demon, steeped in darkness, cold beyond imagining, yet clearly
falling to the blade of the mysterious hero, wearing a beautiful jeweled
pendant upon his neck. Strangely, this odd jewel would be similar to the
mirror above, yet seeming to shift, changing color before your bewildered
eyes. On the other side would be a younger blue haired man, not the same,
yet so similar they might have been kin, facing off with his blade,
surrounded by his friends, with a creature of unimaginable beauty, yet
horrible beyond imagining. Also this warrior is shown as being victorious,
as if these fell creatures could be stopped by blade alone. Strangely the
eyes of the hero in this fresco seem to be moist, almost as if the man was
about to cry, and one would wonder how odd it would be if the painting was
able to cry. Yet a second later, another image would strike that thought
from your mind. Looking at the beautiful goddess, one would notice she
appeared similar to one standing near the hero, a snake-tailed monstrosity
from the waist down, a beautiful sorceress from the waist up, looking at the
two, one would almost see them as being so similar that they could be
sisters. Maybe you would notice that the snake-sorceress appears upon the
other fresco as well, appearing only slightly older, yet otherwise unchanged
by what clearly must be much passage of time. One would walk through this
corridor, filled with awe, amazed at what one sees, yet when one passes
through the door, one would be overcome with wonder. A square room, not a
single wall more than a dozen feet across. A slight indention in the
center, a slightly raised platform on one's left. In many ways one could
see this a sign that the chamber was used for battle, and indeed the
scratches, the flame marks, even the blood stains on the floor would bear
your righteousness in this claim. Yet^�times may change, and this room
appears to no longer be used for any such purpose. Instead it seems to be
filled with sadness, and a small hope. Behind the raised platform one sees
a small statue, an idol, forged in the shape of a dragon. Maybe it would
seem to be the last artifact of a long forgotten cult, yet behind in, in
green paint upon the wall, is the same statue, with, in slightly lighter
green paint, a humanoid dragon appearing to rise from the statue, wisdom
shown in its eyes, experience shown in the very artistic position of it's
twin Chinese-style mustaches and it's small, even lighter, goatee. Yet this
artwork, so beautifully painted as to seem as if it would come alive at any
moment, perhaps even it will, pales in comparison with the magnificent
artwork upon the other three walls. Beginning on the wall opposite the
door, and continuing to cover all but a single wall, the masterpiece depicts
a battle of tremendous proportions. Starting with what appears to be a
gigantic tree, it's roots spread along the bottom of the first wall, ancient
in their portrayal. One would get a feeling of eternal patience from the
tree, as if one was in the presence of a being more ancient than one could
possibly comprehend, a sense of always being there. Standing before the
tree is a small plant, misshapen yet something that clearly is different
than any other plant one could find if one had a million years, a plant
unique among it's kind. Following the painting along the wall one would
come to a group, distinguished by the mere differences within it, thieves
stood with warriors of faith, royalty among paupers, all following a blue
haired boy. Yet as you watch, the image would seem to shift, be this boy or
be it man, for both seem to appear before your eyes. Opposing this mixed
group of warriors appears another boy, much like the first, yet purple is
his hair. As one watches one would see the same double image, as intriguing
as the first, yet there be something more, a darkness around the boy, a
sadness only mirrored in the eyes of those with whom he battles, as if they
were long lost kin, brought together to face each other on the field of
battle. One might see something even beyond that, hidden in the strands of
darkness that surround the single young warrior, a strand leading from him,
so lightly painted as to appear almost invisible to the naked eye, a line of
power, dark power. Leading to a hand of incredible beauty, such that most
mortal men would kneel before such a hand, borne by a winged angel, sent no
doubt from the heavens, blinding in her golden glory. Blond hair cascading
down her back, she floats on the third and final wall, nearly alone. But
another figure is also seen, emitting an aura as hideous as the first was
good, possessing the face of the angel, it was a perversion of nature a
fiend, towering high, surrounded by a swirling aura of darkness and hate.
As much as one felt hope from the view of the angel, filling thy heart with
faith, one feels helplessness before this artistic rendering. Be thankful
it be only art, for few would be able to even kneel before such a horror, a
perversion of the very ideas which embody good, an instant would be all it
takes, and death would claim your soul. Standing back one would notice
another figure, almost hidden behind the gathered warriors, the sorceress
from before, standing weakly, she watches as one who knows that the world
was changing, watching the end of a long forgotten era. As one turns to
leave, a last image catches your eyes, something that amazes you that you
missed before, glowing golden, an artistic feat that must have taken years
to perfect to such a level, it appears as if a third eye exists in the
forehead of the boy, glowing, leading him to his destiny, to the darkness
beyond. As one travels back down the corridor, one may look at the two
frescoes along the way, glancing at the younger boy, and one might notice
how his eyes gleam, shining almost as if they were reflecting light through
tears, as if the man could not allow himself to cry, despite the sadness he
felt. Walking back one would never notice the spirit following you, guiding
your way. As one leaves the village, hidden in the desert, abandoned by all
who live, one would never notice the single change, a quick image, but a
flash really, of a face of a dragon, elderly and wise, his eyes gleaming
golden through the stone mirror, then, just as quickly, disappearing beneath
the stone, leaving small waves as if he had dove into a placid pond. And
even these too would quickly disappear, returning the stone to it's
incredible smoothness, it's unnatural texture and design, but one would
never notice this simply change as one leaves the village of the dead, a
land once known as the birthplace of hope, home of the dragons^�
And a young boy would feel courage; suddenly knowing he would never be
alone.
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Prelude 3:The Tower of Tyr
If a man stood in the midst of the deserts of Antheon, he might be awed by
the sheer power of nature in action, the absolute lack of any living
creature, the simple barren planes which flowed on for miles in all
directions, not a single thing breaking the mold. Of course, upon this most
unholy land, he would miss much with his eyes, after all, he is merely
mortal, and no mortal may view what this desert hides. A small desert, yet
one in which not a single machine will function, nor any living being come
close, except for man, ignorant of the forces represented here. A small
island, somewhere in the middle of the Pacific ocean, one would think that
such an island would have colonists, people, animals, anything but endless
expanses of sand, going off towards the horizon, oh so far beyond ones
perceptions. If a man was to walk across this small island, he would be
amazed at how long it would take, almost as if it was many times it's
apparent size from above, yet of course, how would he know, for none may see
but a spec of it from above. Yet, if one was to think this island
completely barren, uninhabited by any creatures that mortal man has ever
known, one would be wrong, dreadfully wrong. After all, there is much
beyond what mortal eyes can see. Perhaps a truly powerful mystic might
discern a tree, near the western edge of the island, somehow, invisible to
the naked eye, a long forgotten being, watching the desert, it's wooden bark
telling many a tale upon the face of the earth. Maybe one with tremendous
powers of empathy, one whom may sense the true spirits of plants would feel
what this is, a mere extension of a being so ancient that it has been
forgotten by all who lived upon the earth, carrying the wisdom and knowledge
of ages upon it's roughly growing limbs. Perhaps one wise in the ways of
old, knowing the names of greater beings, might put a name to this forgotten
tree, yet he would be wrong, for none has ever written the true name of this
lost god, even now slowly dying from the abuse heaped upon it by forgotten
mortals, it hides it's lasts vestiges of life from mortal eyes, yet leaves a
single tree here, watcher for a land which was once the birthplace of two
beings, beings of incredible power. One might ask who those beings were,
but none would answer your query, for only the tree would no, and no voice
would he speak with. Perhaps a god might witness this desert, a being with
sight so true that none may deceive it, the divine eyes of heaven. Then
something remarkable would be seen, hidden deeply within the sands, a tower,
buried almost completely in the sands. Maybe if a god was watching, he
would be horrified by what was about to occur, perhaps he would seek to stop
it, but he would fail, and be destroyed, for so is the fate of gods, when
met with those of greater might. As the tower would rise it would remain
hidden from the eyes of mortal men, surrounded by an ancient city, once
called Xhan Khun, it was here that the tower, dark and terrifying in it's
construction, would rise once more. Higher and higher it would rise, and
one might think that surely someone would be able to see it, but the eyes of
mortals may not see this tower. A storm would commence, thundering,
clouding the azure sky with darkness, wind would blow the desert sands, show
harsh that they would rip apart any flesh they touched. Slowly the tower
would rise, a monstrosity which had witnessed a thousand battles, built from
magic and technology, a wonder and a horror, beyond the ken of mortals, it
would stand, the dark tower. A tower which had been first built as a
prison, which grew beyond it's bounds, once was viewed with terror, next
with hope, always dark in its construct, a hidden fortress, powerful among
the skies. Rising higher and higher, it strikes through the dark clouds,
demons screeching cries of glory as the unholy structure resurfaces upon the
mortal plane. The rise of the dark goddess, and perhaps, mortals would feel
a chill, as a being most ancient upon the world, a goddess, powerful and
wise, who has risen again to reclaim her world. Most though would feel
hope, raining from the skies, the chance of renewal flowing through their
souls. A dream both beautiful and harsh to remember. Beyond the highest
floor, in whence a place that was once called Eden exists, a land filled of
the most beautiful aspects of nature existing as far larger than the entire
floor area of the tower, would stand an angel. A being whose very existence
would fill one with hope, a maternal calling which tells that all shall be
made right, a siren's voice. Few could resist such a call, and why bother,
for is not hope good, would it not be nice not to have to worry, to know
that everything would turn out alright? But not for all, after all, the
angel sees a small world, fragile, and such fragile creatures that live upon
it, she certainly cannot allow all to live as they will. For only her path
will lead to hope, to eternal safety, and this path cannot be wrong. Her
white wings glowing, she would land upon this realm of non-existence and
pray for her world, and change would occur. After all the wish of a goddess
is a powerful thing. Demons would awaken, once again to serve the goddess,
angels falling to answer her dread call. And a force more powerful than any
ever assembled by man would arise from their long slumber, the stone
guardians of Myria. The dragon-slayers. They would arise and know but one
thing, that there duty was not complete, almost none would question, none
would hesitate, for the wish of the goddess was clear, none could be allowed
to threaten her small world, those of power must be destroyed. And hidden
in the sands the tree would hear, and stand and watch, forgotten even by the
dark goddess, more elder than the tower and observer for longer than any
other being could have stood. Another would awaken, the lost soul,
awakening deep within the desert, his trusty spear beside him, he would know
what has happened. He was the heretic, the one who lost his way upon the
heavens, whom questioned the goddess, he would search for the ray of hope,
fearing ever for the world, bereft of any faith. And as the sands would
calm the guardians would leave, hidden in cloaks, beings forgotten by the
world, forged by the faith of a long dead clan, they shall seek to end the
order of the world, to return it to it's safe state, under the guidance of
the mighty Myria. And the winds shall blow, unheeding of the events that
hath just occurred. A single man shall view the tower, as he leaves,
cloaked without his heart, bearing but a single spear, he would seek to
change the world, carrying the tear of a lost tribe. Turning he would leave
the desert, knowing it's long forgotten name, and leaving the tower, which
even he would not know. For he would leave the desert of death, turning his
back upon the dark tower of hope, the tower of Tyr, Goddess of destruction,
birthplace of Myria, Goddess of Hope, and he would travel, seeking what was
lost.
And a young man would rise, feeling the burden of destiny upon him, he
would know not his fate, but would stand before it, resolute with the
courage of ages.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prelude 4:The lost sister^�
Hidden beneath a mountain, trapped under the waters, floating on the sands^�
such legends have always been told of the sorceress of legend^� a figure
of mystique, her powers have always risen to a need. Living, dreaming,
sleeping, the story of her might has been told for many eons. Her floating
city among the sands, guarded by the spirits of the wind, three in
particular which guarded her eternal rest, was a legend that no desert man
would ever not be able to tell. Or the hidden vortex of sands, another tale
of the deserts, albeit from a different continent, which told of the
mystical underground lair of the serpent sorceress. Death itself had long
since given up upon this soul, the tales would run, albeit few now knew
where she lay, sleeping, waiting for the next time she was needed. The
tales would be false of course, as the sorceress has slowly succumbed to age
over the course of millennia, her hair, once darkest blue, is now streaked
with lines of steely gray. Maybe a tale would be told, in the shadows of an
old mountain in Tibet, of a hidden shrine, long since buried, in which she
guided the fate of the world, granting knowledge to those who sought it. A
wall was said to be at the end of the shrine, covered with archaic runes,
which would shine blue when touched by mortal hand. Some would wonder what
these runes were saying, perhaps a story, or maybe a spell, none truly knew,
for the location of the shrine was lost to memory. Perhaps a tale would be
told of the mists of the rising sun, which would appear from time to time,
during the brightest parts of the day, when the sun shone as if it meant to
burn all shadows from the grounds below. This tale would be quite
interesting, a tale of a city, carried in the mists, unreachable by human
convention. Always appearing off the coast of a proud nation, the country
where the sun rose, high in the east, it would disappear as hastily as it
appeared. Some called it the work of a sea witch, designed to throw sailors
off their course, and maybe it would be true, for few would be able to
navigate in the deep mists. Some would speak of spirits whom would whisper
among the clouds, sometimes blowing a ship onward, even without a single
gust of wind moving the ship. Never would a ship of steel find this mist,
only the older fishermen would ever come across it, speaking fondly of the
mists, for after leaving the mist, fish would always be plentiful where they
found themselves. "Perhaps the mist is a boon, sent by a sea goddess to
reward her faithful", they would say. But this tale would be close yet far
from the truth, as would all these tales. For the sorceress of legend lived
yet, not upon the desert, nor under the waters, nor hidden deep in the
mountains. She would not be bound by chains, covered in runes, or trapped
in a prison of power. She would not wield her powers at all, neither as a
sea goddess or as a sea witch, for she was none of these things. She was
merely an old woman, powerful in her arts, powerful in her magic above all,
ancient in her reckoning. Guarded by her last remaining spirits, friends
she has kept with her for ages, she slumbers, dreaming of a better time, a
past when she had family, a single petulant sister, of a future when she saw
hope. She slept, upon the city of the mists, guarded by the three winds of
time, caring little for the world without, a being who had outlived all
those around her. Perhaps once she would travel, assist those younger than
herself, share her ancient knowledge with the world. But no longer did she
bother, after all, the world most cruel had abandoned her, she waited for
death, knowing that there was no more cause to live. She slept, hidden in a
single shrine, four levels deep, in a castle upon the clouds, surrounded by
memories of pasts, a small tree in a corner, towards the front a shrine to a
long forgotten god lay, with one of a few remaining idols standing, watching
the waters of it's beautiful shrine. The destroyed buildings of the past
stay besides these pleasant memoirs, a testament to the battles she had
fought, the beings she had killed, the weight upon her old soul. She would
sleep on a stone plate, a stone coffin with a flat stone lid, rising a foot
above the ground. And here, forever to her mind, she would dream, until
such a time came for her to awaken^�
And a young boy would sleep, perhaps to dream, for knowing the future would
come in its own time, and willing to wait for his own time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Well, what do you thing, Wolfy?", questioned Dracos, smirking again at his
companion who had now taken the form of a large blue wolf, its glistening in
the artificial moonlight that now filtered through a suddenly apparent
window near the top of the room. The room had shifted, with Dracos now
lounging in what appeared to be a throne, though with angels on side and
skulls and demons on the others, topped with a headpiece, which had a young
cherub on it with half the face of a demon, or perhaps it was a demon with
half angelic features. Nevertheless it was an impressive, albeit probably
unnecessary addition to the shifting plane.
Fox shook his canine head, "Okay, So you've brought back a couple of gods
and set them all on an eventual intersect course. Exactly how does this
differ from the past conflicts between these beings. After all, if the
outcome is different, then millions will perish.", lying back down on a
beautiful rug, made of interweaving blues of a thousand shades, forming a
consistency and strength unbelievable in such a flimsy looking rug.
Dracos, "Alas, you see not the beauty of it, the simple complexities that
make up this amazing play. While the principle players have remained the
same, the others are different, it has never been the primary roles that
made the difference in the end anyway, the unknowns, the unappreciated are
those who can sometimes make the biggest differences of all. And even the
principle parts will be played differently this time around, for no act
shall be performed the same twice."
Fox, "Well then, get on with it" ears twitching in anticipation "Introduce
the rest and finish your stage setting, your changes have wrought quite a
combination, it will be interesting to see if it can manage it avoid
becoming a dark fic, with so many evil changes, the nays definitely start in
the lead."
Dracos, "Hmm^� perhaps, but true faith is never easy, and a quest worth
undertaking must be wrought with difficulties of the highest caliber. But,
anew it has reached another point of interest, see my twin changes here, now
watch there effects, as the waves of two other changes collide with these
two, will they cancel themselves out, or merely become a single stronger
wave from it, an interesting question." With a flick of his wrists, a
golden chalice appears in his hand, filled with wine likened only to the
purest shade of red, it's blood kiss an ecstasy beyond mortal imagining.
Sipping a small bit, Dracos toasts, "To faith, may it always run true."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*End Preludes*