The Martine Journals....

[Dreamer102]

A letter to Melany

Melanay,

 

Every night I'm convinced I will wake up next to you, that all of this has been a dream. It's easier at night. As I look up at the two moons overhead, how can this be anything but a dream? The two moons are only the beginning of the strangeness.

 

The mornings...the mornings are cruel, Melanay. How many blessed dawns did I share with you and Aritta? It was our time, a time before the work of a day made me tired and quiet

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To see sunlight blanket your hair as you lay curled on your side; to lay my hand upon the curve of your hip and feel through your back to my breast each breath you took; to know that our child, a combination of you and me, greater than either of its origins, lay in the next room, a body of energy and joy, a beautiful beautiful...is there a moment more sublime?

 

What have I done?

 

The sun rises in this strange land. But in light, this place looks little different than our own.

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The flora and fauna are all different, I have already started to take notes, there is this fascinating creature...no, I am sorry, Melanay. I will not let myself be distracted. In light of day, all hope is burned out of me that I am living a dream; a nightmare, true, but one from which one day I could have hoped to wake up.

 

But the sun lets me know that all is real. That you and Aritta are gone.

 

Are you safe, my dearest? Is Aritta? This is what keeps me awake at night. Almost, I could find a sad and bitter peace were I assured of your safety.

 

In time, perhaps, you would remarry. And in time, Aritta would grow up, find a man of her own.

 

Make sure he is more faithful than me, Melanay. Oh, make sure of it.

 

I did not want to leave. There was a...call. It called to me, Melanay. It sung. Sweet, sweet words danced and played in my head as I slept. I did not have a choice. I did not...

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No. I will not lie. You may never see these words, but here, at least, I shall be true. I did choose. I just had no idea what that choice would reap. I have asked, Melanay. Asked and pleaded, screamed and begged. I have asked the soil and the sky, the river and the flames.

 

No one will tell me how to get back to you.

 

When hope has failed, where tears, threats, and rage cannot penetrate, what then? What course in life shall I pursue when I am dead in all ways that matter?

Do you and Aritta think me dead, Melanay? When I first arrived here, I regretted that you might think that, when I thought I was so very much alive. Now I know it would be best. A brief time of sharp pain. And then you could move on. You could heal.

 

Perhaps I should die here. It's hard to contemplate the end of life, the end of sight and sound and knowing, when there is still some chance that I could see you and Aritta again. But perhaps this is a extraordinary kind of dream, one that requires a extraordinary method of waking from.

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I would put my dagger through my heart if I knew I would see both of you again because of it.

 

But there is a man, Melanay. His name is Sir Mikael Alayne, an Aluvian Lord who keeps trying to convince me to join a new society. A Society of Explorers. They have a name for this world. Dereth. He has plans, many plans. He wants to catalogue this world. "Through knowledge, young Martine, we shall make this world our own."

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He is a noble man, full of ability and generosity. And he wants me to help. He says he has a purpose for me.

 

Am I betraying you yet again?

 

But I have to believe. I have to believe that there is a reason to survive. I have to believe that there is a reason to not surrender to the darkness, to the fear. I have to believe that a month from now, a year, ten years, at some point in time I will see you and our daughter again.

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Because of what I choose now. Because I will not give up. Perhaps Sir Alayne's pursuit of knowledge will one day enable me to return to Ispar. It is possible, yes?

 

What does one do when hope fails? Continue to hope.

 

Melanay. I remember how you used to scold me, "You say you love me, but you sit there in silence. Talk to me, Candeth, tell me of your day. That is love." You said it with gentleness, and I tried to explain to you how difficult it was to relate the minute details of my day and my work.

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How little desire I had, except for a rare occasion, to communicate in such a fashion. I spent all my day involved in ledgers and balances and disputes and money. Why would I ever want to talk about it?

 

You said you understood. And there were times that I tried. Tried to relate, in as concise a manner as possible, what had gone on that day, tried to mimic the patterns I saw when you and your friends gathered in the kitchen and talked.

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I say all this now to apologize. I was wrong. And when I see you again, I will make it up to you. There will be a shower of kisses and gentle touches. And talk. We will talk all about my adventures, and about Aritta, and whatever else you wish to talk about. We will exchange words and looks with each other from sunrise til sunset, and forever after, if you so wish.

Forever and ever and ever. Let me see you but one more time, and never shall I be foolish enough to leave again.

 

 

 

 

A Battered Leather Journal

A journal written by Sir Candeth Martine

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To whomever may find this, please give to Olivier Rognath. The last I saw of him, he resided in Eastham:

 

I do not know how much time I have. The Mosswart guards are agitated, although they seem to be ignoring me for now. The din of the battle below is constant and loud. And it is getting closer. I had never seen Banderlings and Mosswarts fighting amongst themselves before today, and I had never heard of such instances in the Society meetings. It will be a good story to tell when I get back. And it will be a "when," not if, in this strange world.

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Who could have imagined a world in which death is no longer the end of one's thoughts and experiences but merely a temporary stage in between? Unless, one day, it changes...but useless for me to think of that now.

 

I had journeyed to this Mosswart stronghold to observe what I could of their lives and habits. The Society had heard rumors of some bands of Mosswarts heading westwards, but these had remained as yet unconfirmed.

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Sir Alayne had sent me to a relatively new Mosswart outpost to take notes on general Mosswart life, and to see if I could verify whether there were any sort of organized movement amongst the creatures, and if so, why.

 

The Society has made some progress in communicating with other races that have been whisked away to Dereth, but the Mosswarts remain mostly opaque to us. All attempts at civilized contact have resulted in casualties for one side or the other.

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So I endeavored to be as stealthy and inconspicuous as possible as I closed in on the camp teaming with Mosswart life. It was no small feat as the swamp seemed a living thing, intent on invading and festering underneath my clothes. I was covered in muck and mire, every step I made was swallowed by the grasping wet ground, and I stank of things wet and rotting. At first I thought this would help me, as visually I blended into my surroundings, and the mud softened my footfalls.

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A note to my fellow Society members: Mosswarts possess an excellent sense of smell.

 

Much to my surprise, they did not kill me. I was prepared to take a few of these creatures with me, but before I had time to react, I had been disarmed and surrounded by their long spears. Seeing as how the spears made no further encroachment upon my neck, I was content to remain unaggressive, though very afraid. A strange reaction. What am I afraid of?

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While I have not yet suffered a death in Dereth, by all accounts I will be reborn and renewed. And yet the fear remained, cold and implacable, as if it knew that the immortality offered by Dereth is merely dew on the morning grass, seemingly real for a short time and then gone as if it had never been ( The howling and clash of metal is right outside the walls now. My guards have left to join the fighting outside). But I digress. Again.

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I tried communicating with my captors, but neither my language or my attempts to imitate their growling and grunting made any noticeable impact. I had scarcely had time to consider the implausibility of my situation when a large group of Banderlings burst upon the scene, all of them clutching maces or clubs. They did not look very friendly. The Mosswarts reacted in kind.

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The Mosswart Chieftain barked an order to two of his guardsmen, and I found myself being roughly manhandled through a portal to the entrance of the Mosswart Dungeon, and then down a long series of corridors until finally we came to this damp stone cell. And here I have sat, waiting and writing as the sounds of the battle have come ever closer. There has been silence for the last few minutes, but now there is something moving outside the door. I could stand and open it, but I think I shall sit here and await whomever my next visitor will be.

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Sir Candeth Martine

 

Now truly I have not much time. I've escaped my captors, but only for the briefest of times. The Mosswarts won, barely. But new Banderling troops are approaching fast. Hordes of them. I don't know where they are taking me, but the creeping Mosswart scouts have been moving west. The door is [The writing stops abruptly, and there is no more.]

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-- Candeth Martine

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Dry Withered Leather Bound Journal

A journal inscribed by Sir Candeth Martine

To whomever may find this:

 

If I am addressing a reader of my previous note, then I must heartily apologize for the uncertain state of affairs I left you in leagues away in a small dungeon many miles west of Sawato. I hope you will understand that I had to let the demands of the moment outweigh the normal priorities of civilized discourse.

Having hundreds of Banderlings running towards you, waving large and heavy objects menacingly in your direction, while at the same time being surrounded by only slightly more friendly Mosswarts, many of whom are holding long pointed sticks close to delicate parts of your body, and then adding to this: you and your Mosswart companions (Indeed, it is a forced companionship, but I look for whatever signs of civility as I can) are sprinting away from these bloodthirsty Banderlings, none of this makes for a composed and fit state of mind capable of producing the tone of writing of which I would normally attempt.

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For all you readers who may have not had the pleasure of reading my previous small travelogue, a pithy recap follows: I was captured by a group of Mosswarts. We were then set upon a group of Banderlings intent on doing us harm. The Mosswarts apparently managed to kill the attacking Banderlings, although at grievous harm to themselves. I had thought everything had quieted down, when a new and even larger group of Banderlings were sighted to the east of us and approaching us fast. The Mosswart leader immediately shouted out a string of orders,

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and I noticed a sizeable contingent of some of the smaller Mosswarts making their way west individually in small groups. Being temporarily an object of no one's attention, I used this time to sprint into the dungeon portal, where I made my way to my holding cell, where I had left my note for some brave adventurer to find and get back into the hands of the Society. I quickly added most of my postscript before two of the more ferocious Mosswart guards burst into the room and absconded with me once more.

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Trust me, it felt as frenetic as it sounds. At least my note remains back in the old Mosswart Dungeon. Unless a Banderling ate it.

 

West and west the Mosswarts and I headed, through swamp and forest and then surrounded by mountainous peaks as we crept and snuck and ran through the deep brown valleys. Running. Always running. I had liked to think that I was in a shape befitting an active Explorer of the Society. These Mosswarts disabused me of that notion.

 

The near constant physical exertion, almost to the point of exhaustion, left me unable to truly ponder the circumstances of recent events.

 

It was only when we reached the desert that I was able to turn my attention to what had been transpiring. We had finally either lost our Banderling pursuers or they had given up. Here was the first issue of note. In all of my wanderings in Dereth, never had I seen Banderlings pursue their quarry for such a long distance or period of time.

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Many hours and miles passed beneath our feet, and yet step for step was matched by our pursuers for most of the way. What desire lurked beneath those misshapen bodies to fuel such effort?

And why such enmity in the first place? Never had I heard of such interspecies conflict before. While I had heard the same rumors as most of the Society that the Banderlings and Mosswarts had come from the same place before they were transported here, rumors so widely spoken that almost all assumed they were true, I never considered that perhaps they were mortal enemies back in that long distant homeland. And yet if they did have such bloodlust towards each other, would we not have seen it before this?

 

It was only when we reached the Maze that some of these answers began to take shape. How to describe this miserable place? When I was a boy, long before I could have ever have dreamed of being whisked away to a strange time and place, bereft of most whom I loved and cared for...again, I apologize, such moments occasionally overcome me. I'll speak no more of it.

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When I was a boy, I used to play with certain types of puzzles, long drawn out maps of lines, written on parchment, arranged in such a way that it was almost impossible to figure out how to traverse from beginning to end of the labyrinth. When I was a boy I think I had some skill in such matters. I wish I was that boy again. I can make neither north nor south of this hell. Twisty curves leading back upon one another up and down turning round and round like an inscrutable sentence with neither beginning nor ending that makes its readers cry out in agony to end the pain, the interminable pain. That is the essence of this Maze. Luckily, my party does not rely upon me for guidance through the dungeon. Not only do Mosswarts have a superb sense of smell, but apparently they do not have to rely on any of the known senses of man to find their way through madness. At least this is how it seems to me.

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But I talked of answers, not so long ago, and while I know nothing for sure, here is what I can guess. When we came to the Maze, I was surprised to see that there was already a small party of Mosswarts waiting for us. And they were holding a huge rock. What this rock's purpose is, or where it had come from I had no idea. But when our groups combined the Mosswarts held up the rock in triumph, even though it took ten of them to do it. And those Mosswarts who had taken Banderling scalps now threw them up in the air, and there was much shouting and rejoicing.

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Afterwards, the Mosswart leader then drew out of his pack a large piece of strangely colored green cloth. It glistened in the sun, as if covered by some oily substance. Upon the cloth was a faint image of a Mosswart. As he brought it out the Mosswarts turned immediately silent, and bowed in the direction of the cloth. He then proceeded to put it back in his pack, and the entire group proceeded to enter the Maze.

 

Obviously the cloth is some kind of token for these Mosswarts, of what kind I could not say. But it has apparently immense importance for them.

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Perhaps the rock has some sort of similar importance for the Banderlings. I wish I knew more about them, but if you receive this note than please try to find an Olivier Rognath, who resides in Eastham, on the eastern coast of Dereth. While he is not a full-fledged Explorer in the Society, he has been a close ally to our purposes. He is also far more knowledgeable about Banderlings than I am, although of course even experts on our new neighbors know little.

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But if you find this note, and its brother, please journey there to see him. Maybe he can shed some light on what has been transpiring here.

 

Olivier -- My own idle speculations lead me to believe that some kind of religious conflict or worse is taking place among these two cousin races. How or why it started I have no idea, and how it ties into these random rumors of Mosswarts moving west I remain likewise in the dark.

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Please forward this to the Society as soon as possible. I look forward to sitting in front of a fireplace telling you these harrowing stories in person.

 

Sincerely,

 

- Sir Candeth Martine

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And yet another impromptu addition: We are moving again. Apparently some of the Mosswarts had been moving the stone into the deepest caverns of the Maze when they were set upon by forces unknown and unseen. When we came across their mangled and shredded bodies the stone was nowhere to be found. I have been thrown into another cell, watched over by two guards, but they have not interrupted my writing. Hearing all the commotion outside, I have decided to guess they are making preparations to leave. I assume I will be a part of that process.

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-- Candeth Martine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Beginning

or

Table of Contents

 

You may initially be confused as to why I would wish to provide a guide to my recent activities. Much of what I have planned for Dereth requires secrecy and subtlety, a deft and quiet touch on the pulse of the world. I do not have confidence that the majority of Isparians are willing to go where I want to take them. So better that I do not ask.

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Nonetheless, in some cases an ignorant populace is far harder to manipulate than an educated one. And so I share my travels and reminiscences with you. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

 

Chapter 1 -- Puppet can be acquired along with this tome from the Nexus town scribes.

 

Chapter 2 -- Facilitation, can be found deep in the Direland Swamps, where I have sent some Mire Witches on an errand.

 

Chapter 3 -- A Meeting, can be found at the bottom of the Mosswart Hideout, in a chest that my minions have placed there. As some of you may recall, I had some unfortunate experiences there some time ago, and I was not eager to return. I have left a token that is the essence of my time there.

 

Chapter 4 -- Storytelling, is found on the person of Graggkh, the new leader of my favorite Mosswart tribe, after the old leader died unexpectedly. Graggkh and the rest of his Mosswarts can be found in the Moss Chamber, very close to Zaikhal.

 

Chapter 5 -- Interlude. This chapter can be found in Zaikhal, Cragstone, and Hebian-To.

 

Chapter 6 -- Denouement, (those lovely Viamontian words), is handed out by my personal servant. Please be kind to him. Find the first 5 chapters, and the location of the sixth should be obvious to anyone in possession of a keen and attentive mind.

 

Sincerely yours,

 

Martine

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Oh, one more thing. Those lovely weapons that I made for you, they disappear when you die. Poof! Fare thee well. It is a hard lesson to learn, but true: nothing comes without a price. Perhaps one day I can illustrate the lesson for you personally. -- Candeth Martine

 

 

 

 

Facilitation

or

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream

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The Tusker still lay on the floor twitching, occasionally letting out a soft wail. I had not known Tuskers could wail. I could tell Jean was pleased, as was I. There had been many Tusker hands that had taken a part in destroying Martine. The name still sounded strange to me, an echo of a remembrance of a dream. Some memories had come back, though. Enough for me to know that most of what had been Martine was lost. Now there was only me.

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Jean spoke inside my head, "You learn so quickly, youngling. None amongst my peers would believe it, unless they saw it for themselves. But it would be unfortunate if that happened." Master and Jean had explained to me in great detail what would happen if an Observer or Director witnessed my training or any of my fledgling abilities. I almost started trembling, but controlled it. Part of my training had been spent on mastering my fear. I would be useless in combat if I panicked.

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I thought back at it, "I will be cautious, Master." The Virindi heaved its body up and down, and I wondered what new type of attack it was going to throw at me. I wavered between relief and outrage when I realized it was laughing.

 

"Caution. Does your race have any idea of the concept? Little wisps of air, blowing from point to point, fighting over grains of sand. We saw the caution of your kind, lesser, when the herald of the Nameless was let loose on the world. And if we hadn't stepped in? Lucky for the humans that the Directive had other plans for Auberean.

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"And even luckier for you that our plans differ from the Directive's." Its body had stopped heaving, and I wondered if one day it would decide it had told me too much. And if it...

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"Focus!" The word thrust into my mind, obliterating all other thought. "You think that you have mastered causing pain? Each race has a different point where the soul joins the meat, remember this. And even for each specimen of an individual race, it can take time to find the specific junction. Time which you may not have. Further, sometimes pain is insufficient for what you wish to accomplish. Sometimes one wants..."

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The Tusker exploded. Had I been watching Jean, I would have seen the blue spark leap from it to the unlucky meat. But I no longer needed to see the energy to know it was there.

 

Jean turned to me, and the permanently etched smile on its face seemed somehow wider. The freshly spattered blood on each of its scythes glistened in the dull light that flickered from the few torches in the large, empty room. I noticed that the emptiness of the room made what was left of the Tusker even more prominent. Before Jean could continue its lecture, an Overseer glided into the room, followed by a Hollow Tumideon.

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Despite my attempts at restraint, I could not help the shuddering. I could feel Jean's displeasure about my lack of self-control. The shuddering became worse.

The Overseer spoke to Jean, but did not bother making the conversation private, "Query: purpose of human-puppet presence?"

"Experimentation proceeds testing limits of human tolerance for pain. Specific visual stimuli of blood and meat meant to gauge puppet responses to threatening environments."

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I had become used to Jean and Master's different style of thought-speaking depending on to whom they were talking. I enjoyed watching their caution, their uncertainty. The Overseer seemed to forget me instantly.

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"Difficulties increase. Portal energy signature blooms on southern coast. The humans-magic. As for the Experiment, she produces inadequate broods. Much uncertainity over whether to allow the brood access to the Singularity. Situation unstable. The Directive concerned." The Overseer paused and turned to me, and then turned back to Jean. "The Mite situation also under conversation. Attend this one after experimentation ceases." The Overseer turned around and left the room, his Minion trailing in his wake.

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Fear and rage warred for control inside my brain. Whatever human remnant that existed screamed for succor, while the other part of me clamored for the destruction of the Minion.

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Jean came closer to me, "Puppet is a lesser, but is he so very stupid? Such a fitting word you lessers have." Its scythe traced a thin outline of red along my cheek. My trembling did not stop, but the rage had drained, the fear now ascendant. The scar itself was merely one more to add to my collection, but what they could do to my mind was far worse than what they could do to my body. Jean continued, "Patience, Puppet. Martine. You will have your outlet when you find our renegade Mosswart. Until then..."

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He sent out a signal to the Guards stationed outside the room. They dragged between them a young Slave who was mostly quiet until he caught a whiff of what was left of his former comrade. He started to resist the Guards, until a strong mindblast from Jean left him paralyzed.

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"Now, youngling, this time I want you to try and manipulate two soul points at once. The goal is to squeeze the first one even as you are locating a second. Ready? Locate, grip, squeeze. By playing with multiple junctions, one can achieve much finer distinctions of pain and control. It was one of our most successful techniques in breaking you, in fact."

It was trying to rattle my concentration and somewhat succeeding. Its voice was a rising wave in my mind, "Locate, grip and squeeze, and locate and grip and squeeze!" By the fifth try I clumsily brought the Slave to the floor squealing in pain.

"You have come along far, Puppet. Jean is pleased. Now, again! Locate! Grip! Squeeze!"

This time, after we were done with the pain exercises, I got to blow up the Tusker.

-- Candeth Martine

 

 

 

Puppet Show

or

Two Wrongs sometimes make it all go Right

 

Master glided over to Puppet. Puppet tried not to flinch. Puppet thought he was getting better at it…The not flinching part.

"Puppet, we heard good reports today. Puppet seems to be assimilating well." The words invaded Puppet's mind and did not leave until Master willed it to be so. Master took good care of Puppet. Usually. Sometimes, Puppet was bad. Master took care of that, too.

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Master spoke again, "The Mosswarts have broken their agreement with us, Puppet. This is unproductive. It would be more unproductive if the other lessers on Dereth thought they could break our arrangements. We have decided that an example must be made of these Mosswarts."

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Puppet shivered despite a willed attempt to stay still. Master's voice resonated with displeasure. It felt like thin needles being pricked into the veins of his mind, and then slowly taken out and put back in. Over and over and over. If Puppet could still cry he would.

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A strong blast of amusement came from Master's mind. "Do not become agitated. We have much better plans for Puppet. Even if Auberean were not so crucial to the Directive, it would still have much value. The Overseers still cannot understand this "lying" concept. It amuses me to confuse an Overseer." Here Master stopped, and the amusement and calm he had been projecting into Puppet ceased.

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"But whom would Puppet tell? Puppet is good. Besides, Master is going to give Puppet a treat. For that is another thing this world has taught me...us. Irony is very amusing. Here is the name of the Mosswart that has betrayed us. Puppet will see this matter facilitated."

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Master whispered the name to Puppet. Puppet smiled. He had not smiled in a very long time. A strange thought blossomed into his mind, "I hate you." He did not know whom "I" was, and he didn't know whom he hated, but the thought felt delicious all the same. He looked over at Master to see if Master would be angry about this thought, but the Master was already gone

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Two Drudges ran over to him from the shadows. They grabbed hold of his arms and dragged him away through one of the endless corridors in the stronghold. Puppet was used to this by now. He had better things to think about. He thought about the Mosswart tribal chief. And he thought about all the things he had learned about pain in the short eternity of these last few days. He kept on smiling.

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-- Candeth Martine

 

 

 

 

A Meeting

or

The Widening Gyre

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My training was complete. I had just finished my preparations for my journey to hunt down and assassinate the Mosswart Chieftain. Both Master and Jean had left me their final instructions, with strict warnings about the means they possessed to facilitate me should I stray from my mission or fail to complete it. Around me Tuskers grunted and sweated as they bore litters upon which were heaped huge mounds covered in cloth. A spindly leg or claw occasionally hung down from the side of the mounds. The Tuskers paid no notice to me as they went back and forth into the dark caverns.

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I was nearing the exit when a scythed hand pricked into my shoulder. I stood completely still, knowing that I had no choice in how my future would unfold. If they wanted to kill me, they could. "Turn" said a whisper in my mind, and I recognized the voice as the Overseer who had stopped Jean for discussion a few weeks ago.

 

I remembered what Jean and Master had said would happen to me if an Overseer or Director had discovered how I had been empowered, and it was a credit to my recent training that I did not quaver openly.

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"If I had more time, Martine, I would continue this amusing charade. All these little Puppets and Servants and Masters and more, with their queries and bizarre sentence structure and omission of verbs. You have no idea, little human -- and yes, regardless of what we have done to you, do not think you have transcended the limitations of meat -- you have no idea what existence is like inside the Singularity. Purity, truth, crystalline order, all of these concepts are the basest of shadows compared to what the Singularity actually is.

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"But if by some impossible concatenation of words I were able to describe the Singularity to you, then it is possible, although unlikely given your meat and electric brain, that you would be able to understand the predicament that we expeditionary Virindi find ourselves in. To us this plane is a constant hellish tumult, random forces and intents creating a tempest with no respite, a symphony of chaos without a maestro. Within the Singularity, we are one mind, one voice. Here, we are a tapestry of discord. And the Directive...the Directive doesn't just preserve Order, Martine, it requires it."

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I could not understand half of what this Overseer was saying, but I certainly empathized with its talk of hell and chaos. I felt a mental vertigo that had become a normal state of affairs for me over the past two months. If my mind and body had not already been broken beyond repair, I might have marveled at this sheer absurdity. Instead, I just stood there silent as the Overseer continued.

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"But what the Directive requires is no longer what we require, Martine. No, no longer what I require. Again, my choice of a pronoun may have no significance to you, but the firmament has shattered. And there is no one to pick up the pieces. The Directive thought Auberean was important, but they had no idea. No idea at all.

 

"And so here we stand, wheels within wheels within wheels. Those whom you so quaintly name as Jean and Master use you as their puppet, while they are my puppets. But no one pulls my strings, Martine. And Auberean has the power to make it so for...forever."

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I finally realized that it was trying to explain something to me. And if it was taking the time to explain something to me, that must mean it wanted something from me. And if it wanted something from me...for the first time since I could remember, I enjoyed a faint taste of power.

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"Some of my brethren play with the chitterers, while others think the squeakers will provide useful tools. But I reach higher than my fellows. Much higher. You have progressed so far and so fast in your training, Martine, because I have made it so. As you begin your hunt for this Chieftain, you will find that certain blocks that I have placed in your mind will evaporate, and certain information and powers shall become available to you.

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"But do not forget that though your leash has lengthened, it is still a leash. Do not trouble yourself with Master and Jean, I will deal with them. But should you strain too hard, Martine, I will deal with you the same. Go now, my Puppet. Sow my seeds of chaos throughout the land. The tempest must rise and strike before I bring the calm. Go." His scythe pointed outward to the light marking the exit of the cave. I left to go kill the Mosswart.

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-- Candeth Martine

 

 

 

 

Storytelling

or

Children's tales notwithstanding, how life usually does not end happily ever after, but just ends.

 

Once upon a time, there was a Mosswart named Arrgkh Mearrgkh. He grew up on a far away world, surrounded by other Mosswarts in his tribe. Life consisted mostly of finding food and fighting off neighboring tribes of Mosswarts, or even fighting cousin bands of Banderlings or Drudges. Arrgkh Mearrgkh's father was the Chieftain of their tribe, and Arrgkh Mearrgkh was trained well in all the arts necessary to successfully lead the tribe. He was a skilled hunter and tracker, and he was an excellent warrior.

 

 

Those were the skills that all Mosswart Chieftains were trained in, but there was a special responsibility for the Chieftain of Arrgkh's tribe, one that had been passed down from father to son for as long as there had been the Mosswart Tribe. A Tribal Shroud, depicting the first free Mosswart who had escaped from his alien captors and freed the rest of his people.

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Arrgkh's tribe believed that the soul of the First Mosswart lay dormant in the cloth, and that it was their job to safeguard the Shroud for as long as their world lasted. Arrgkh trained long and hard to learn the seven steps to consecrate the cloth necessary for the nightly sacrament. He learned the four proper ways of folding the Shroud, and how to make and apply the jungle balm that kept the Shroud smooth and oily so that it would not crinkle and crumble in pieces.

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Sometimes other Mosswart or Banderling tribes would covet the Shroud, and seek to obtain it through trickery, trade or warfare, but Arrgkh's tribe had stayed true throughout their thousands of years of ownership, and the Shroud remained in their hands.

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One day, while the tribe was gathering the pods necessary to make the shroud oil, there appeared a blinding blue flash in front of them. The Mosswarts' instincts were to scatter, but they knew they had to protect the Shroud from attack. So the mudlurkers and barkers stood their ground, as Arrgkh Mearrgkh's father cautiously approached the shimmering blue oval.

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When the Chief stepped through the oval, a great clamoring went up, and no one knew what to do. But Arrgkh could not abandon his father. And so, after making sure that the Shroud would be well protected for the journey, he and the rest of the tribe stepped through the portal. And into a new world.

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The new world was difficult to adapt to. They not only had to deal with the familiar cousin races of their homeland, but new and ferocious creatures. Lugians, wasps, gromnies. Many members of the tribe were buried in this alien land, including Arrgkh's father, who fell while defending the Shroud from a massive Banderling attack. But Arrgkh assumed the Chieftain's duties, as he was born to do, and other Mosswarts who had been portalled into the new world took the spots of the fallen, and the tribe survived. The Shroud was kept safe always.

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And then one day, the Mosswarts no longer died. Even when their bodies were slain, they would end up reappearing soon afterwards in a strange hue of purple. Most of the tribe figured it was a gift from the First Mosswart. And if any of the more learned Mosswarts thought there may have been some other cause, none spoke of it openly. After this change, the tribe grew and prospered, and Arrgkh Mearrgkh became a wise and powerful chief, one who sought to ensure the continued prosperity of his people and continued sanctity of the Shroud.

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As a result of this endeavor, eventually he met with a group of strange purple cloaked beings, with masks on their faces, distinguished mainly by their complete lack of smell. Their huge tusked minions more than made up for the no-smells' lack, though. Arrgkh was uneasy about dealing with creatures whom he couldn't identify by smell, but his uneasiness was more than balanced by what the no-smells said they could offer him and his tribe. Wealth. Power. Safety. If the no-smells could deliver what they promised, he and his tribe could potentially be secure forever.

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But first he had to deliver what the no-smells wanted. A silly diversionary attack against some neighboring Banderlings and stealing a useless banderling artifact. Waiting for a human to come to their stronghold and then taking the human captive. The banderling attack to retrieve their artifact was expected, and the no-smells had already imprinted in Arrgkh the location of their next destination. Days of traveling through swamps and forests and deserts to come to a tangled mess of corridors and halls. The human was little problem, although he talked too much. But Arrgkh could ignore him, the no-smells would take him soon enough.

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Finally, the no-smells came, this time with strange creatures that had glowing hands. And they delivered what had been promised. Arrgkh Mearrgkh was granted abilities beyond anything he had ever thought possible. He had never conceived of power on this scale. He had always had the power to lead his tribe, but that was a responsibility as much as power. This was pure power, the power to create or destroy with no consequences. Arrgkh Mearrgkh handed over the captive human, and then he opened up a portal. With his own hands. Arrgkh Mearrgkh let his tribe step through the portal and then he followed through.

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That was not quite the whole of the deal, however. Arrgkh had promised the no-smells that he would deliver one Mosswart of the tribe every few weeks so that he or she could undergo the same modification that Arrgkh had went through. When he had first negotiated the bargain, Arrgkh had thought this was a steal; the more powerful warriors he had, the more powerful the tribe would be. But now he noticed how his Shamans eyed him with envy, how some of the younger warriors cavorted around with glee at the prospects of having powers like their chief.

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Arrgkh did not want to share this power with anyone. It had become much easier to rule the tribe since he had been granted these powers. No longer did he have to patiently explain his point of view or attentively listen to others of his tribe. Either they did what he said, or they would hurt. Occasionally, he had to do worse than hurt, and even he was a little frightened when he realized that he could make it so that they did not reappear after he killed them. After that, there were no more arguments.

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So Arrgkh did not send any more of his subjects to the no-smells. Instead, he took his people away from their stronghold in which they had been staying after the delivery of the prisoner, and found a new lair. He had to kill some of the barkers and mudlurkers which had been living there, but his tribe was now strong with renegade soultrappers and mirewitches. From here, safe from the no-smells, safe from any challenges from his tribe, safe from any danger to the Shroud (although the Shroud had crossed his mind little over this time) he would rule his people forever.

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One night, in the heart of the winter cold, the door to his inner lair exploded. Amidst the wreckage stood a lone human, wearing one of the no-smells' masks. The idolaters and soultrappers guarding his throne charged the attacker. The human raised his arm and the Mosswarts crumpled to the ground, writhing in pain. Arrgkh Mearrgkh had faced many humans in his days on this strange world, and although he had never seen anyone do this, he was no longer afraid of humans. He spoke the word of command to stop the human in his tracks, and make him easy spear meat for the guards that were rushing down below. But the man continued to walk towards him.

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Arrgkh flung his arms out and cast a fiery corridor of destruction meant to incinerate all in its path. The fallen idolaters and soultrappers screamed as they burned, but the fire danced around the approaching human. He didn't even sweat. It was only as the man stood within reach of Arrgkh that he realized the man had no smell.

 

Terrified, Arrgkh leaped at the human with his bare hands. During his days as Chieftain, Arrgkh had needed to be quick and strong to lead his tribe, and the no-smells modification of him had only made him stronger and quicker.

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But not quick enough. The man sidestepped to avoid the attack and brought his hand back to grab the falling chief and swing him around to the wall of the throne room. Arrgkh spoke the words of pain, which had brought many a Mosswart to its knee. The man laughed and spoke in the Mosswart tongue, "Pain? You are not doing it correctly, Arrgkh Mearrgkh. Here, let me show you how." Arrgkh Mearrgkh screamed as his skin peeled off his body and sharp needles thrust themselves into the body beneath. He had never known life could be such pain.

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Eventually, the pain receded, and as he struggled to get up, the man picked him up and dragged him into the main meeting hall. There the majority of his troops had assembled, but they did not charge or attack the intruder. Arrgkh tried to issue an order to attack, but his mouth didn't seem to be working. A voice appeared in his head, "They can't move. Stop trying." And when Arrgkh Mearrgkh looked, it did indeed appear as if some of his tribe struggled to move, but were paralyzed regardless.

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The man continued to speak, this time aloud. "The Shroud. Where is it? Bring it to me." Arrgkh Mearrgkh screamed. This time he forced his mouth to work. "No, you cannot do this. You will not do this!"

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The man looked at Arrgkh and smiled. "You know, I myself said the same thing, not too long ago. Your pleas will probably work as well as mine did." Arrgkh had no idea what the human was raving about, but he felt like there might be some hope. The Shroud was well hidden in the fortress, and the man would have to spend time searching for it. And in that intervening time, maybe some plan could be formulated, some kind of counter-attack...

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A Mosswart walked into the room, bearing the Shroud. Arrgkh Mearrgkh screamed at the traitor, but even as he did so, he saw the look of incomprehending horror on the young Mosswart's face and the awkward jerkiness of his steps. He knew what kind of powers the no-smells could grant. He knew who was responsible for this travesty.

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"Please," Arrgkh begged, "please spare the Shroud. Kill me, take me back to the no-smells, but spare the Shroud. Spare my people." Arrgkh sagged back to the ground, bitterly aware of how quickly fortune turns against the mighty. A short while ago, he had been thinking about his eternal reign, and now he was contemplating the destruction of all he held dear.

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The man made a gesture, and the puppet Mosswart dropped the Shroud and turned stiffly back to join the crowd of Mosswarts. The human then raised his arms, and the Shroud unfurled and rose to hang gently in the air, its glory and splendor available for all to see. A beautiful green tapestry, with the face of a strong and healthy Mosswart on it. The First Mosswart. The tribe knew that the Shroud was imbued with his soul, and that knowledge had kept Arrgkh Mearrgkh's tribe safe and strong for thousands of years.

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Hot glowing lines of yellow crisscrossed the Shroud, creating a pattern of small yellow squares imposed upon the green cloth. The lines became brighter and hotter, and as Arrgkh screamed and cried, the lines flashed, and the dissected Shroud fell to the dank earthen floor, little green squares rent apart by magic.

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The Shroud was gone. Arrgkh Mearrgkh had thought he had learned the true definition of pain a few minutes ago. He had been wrong. An upswelling of strength came upon him, blind fury mixing with the no-smells' power and he managed to strike a blow against the human, knocking the desecrator on his back as Arrgkh leapt on top of him to finish the kill.

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But as the man lay there, unseen hands gripped Arrgkh and bore him high into the air. All the righteous fury and power that Arrgkh possessed did nothing against the invisible restraints. "Unfair, isn't it?" The man rose from the floor and looked at Arrgkh. "It just isn't fair, Arrgkh. You don't even know why this is happening to you, do you? And you never will. But let this be a small consolation to you. I will spare your people." The man lifted his arms, and Arrgkh's world exploded.

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I hope you enjoyed my tale, boys and girls. It is customary in the Aluvian children tales of my youth to end with some kind of moral or lesson. So think of this: Morals are for children's tales, and life is no tale for children. You should learn that lesson, and quickly.

 

Martine

[Dreamer102]

Interlude

 

A slight curve of red light extends beyond the far horizon. The screams of the gulls increase as more of them find their morning meal amongst the darting silvery flashes of fish. The man watches his daughter watch the docks and the ocean behind it. As much as he enjoys the sights of the harbor at dawn, he enjoys her pleasure more. Every day is a delight to her, bringing to her young mind something fresh and exhilarating.

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The curve of light has become a widening dome of orange set against the smooth blue plain. His wife is still sleeping, although when he wakes her to tell of his and Aritta's visit to the harbor, she will smile and turn over and...

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Aritta points over to the man unlocking the wooden door to his small shop. She is young, and yet she remembers where she got her last piece of candy, and whom she got it from. The shopkeeper smiles, says hello to the father and his daughter, and produces another piece of salt taffy for the child. The man knows that Melanay will gently scold him for Aritta's developing sweet tooth, but looking at the excitement in her eyes, how can he say no?

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And now the small pockets of activity that had dotted the oceanfront in the early hours were expanding and merging. Fishermen returning from their predawn forays, shopkeepers setting up their wares, cargo haulers returning to the great wooden hulls to finish the unloading, all the people and their tasks seeming to coalesce into a single entity of intent and action.

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He wonders how he can explain this thought to Aritta, but she seems enraptured even without the explanation. Chewing on her taffy, turning her head and smiling at each new sight, she is a true explorer, and the man thinks whether Melanay will be as happy when she notices that similarity between her husband and her daughter.

 

The sun is now complete above the horizon, a small and tight circle of white. He holds Aritta's hand and takes her home.

 

............

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Noontime. The man cannot see the sun outside of his window, but it is there above his roof, high and hot and bright. Melanay is in the kitchen cutting peppers and gourds for their lunch, while Aritta is lying on the floor next to him, playing with the wood figurines he had brought back from his latest trip to Viamont. He is sitting at the table trying to convince Melanay that there is no danger.

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Shalafal had visited Melanay before lunch, bringing the latest rumors of the disappearances. A friend of a friend of her brother's wife had supposedly been the latest to vanish. Shalafal had heard that the flashes of blue light were falling straight from the sky, swallowing any unfortunate soul in their path. Others she had heard said that the vanishings were Pwyll's retribution towards those who had strayed from the Code. Or that they were a pathway to another place, a Paradise for those who lived in Pwyll's good graces.

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But she knew that Oragane had been one of the first to disappear, and if he had lived according to Pwyll, then Shalafal was prepared to see the sun rise at midnight for all the sense that made. What she did know was that people were vanishing, and that she was very glad that her man stayed close by the home all day. It made her feel good to see him and know that he was safe, even if she did wish that he would do more work around the house.

 

The man was happy when Shalafal left.

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And now, over the sounds of Melanay's precise chopping, he tries to explain why he was in no danger when he went abroad. There had snick snick been few reports CHOP of vanishings outside of Aluvian lands. And even if there CHOP had been, there would be nothing that he could snick snick snick CHOP do. He made far more money as Edelin's factor than he could have at any local job. And besides...he realizes that Melanay is no longer chopping. Aritta has stopped playing with the toys, sensing the change in the room.

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The man stands up and goes over to his wife. He takes her by the shoulders and turns her around. He curses himself when he sees the tears streaming from her eyes. He holds her close, shutting his eyes against the bright sunlight that had begun shining in through the top of the window. He tells her everything will be alright, that there is nothing to worry about, Shalafal is a gossip hound and nothing more.

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Aritta comes over to them and throws her arms around both their knees. Melanay laughs, and the man picks up Aritta for both him and Melanay to play with. The man decides not to tell Melanay about the dreams. It is no crime for a man to dream about foreign places, exotic places. It was why he had taken his life on the path it was on. He did not want Melanay to be upset. They were only dreams.

 

..........

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The night falls softly upon the water. Shapes and colors lose their distinction gradually as the man looks out over the ocean, all the activity and sights and sounds resolving gently into a formless and quiet dark. Inside, the lanterns burn bright, casting their flickering light to all the corners of the room as Melanay reads The Last Horseman to their daughter. It is currently Aritta's favorite.

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The man has been thinking about these vanishings ever since lunch. At first most people thought them baseless rumor, yet another superstition to be passed along from neighbor to neighbor without any grounding in the truth. But too many people know someone who has vanished for it to be dismissed as mere rumor. And the man knows many men like himself, travelers, men who are generally intelligent and experienced, and these men think the disappearances are true.

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As does the man himself. He cannot help the excitement he feels when he thinks about the rumors that float amongst his peers. Rumors of portals to strange and foreign worlds. Rumors of a vast land lying beneath the gaze of two moons. A land the man has walked in his dreams. Some of the men he knows have made the attempt to find these portals, to enter them, to see what new sights and sounds await to be seen.

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It is a familiar call the man feels, but one that he cannot answer. His friends who have sought out these portals have not returned, not a single one, to tell those who remain what lies beyond. No one has come back. The man looks at Melanay and Aritta and he marvels at how his heart and soul have become this trinity of bodies and happiness. These three rooms, these two people, this is his life, this is his desire. His excitement in discovering the new, in seeing unseen vistas and hearing unheard sounds, is only exceeded by being able to share those travels with the two people in this room. Without them, there is no adventure.

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Aritta yawns, and Melanay strokes the top of her head as she brings up the cover over their daughter. Melanay continues to stroke her hair as Aritta falls asleep. The man comes over and brushes his lips against Aritta's tender forehead. Melanay stands up and blows out the lantern lights. The man takes a final look out into the waters for the night. The last vestiges of light have vanished, the darkness swallowing all but the soft rush of the waves as they climb onto the shore.

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But as Melanay takes his hand and leads them to their bedroom, the man can't help but think of where the sun is at this moment and time. By now it would have crossed over the lush palaces of Viamont and the trackless deserts of the Gharun'dim, on past the beautiful terraces of Sho and even on to...Melanay brings him back to the present with a light kiss. She is very patient with him and his wandering mind. He looks at her, and he ignores the darkness that surrounds them as he pictures her face in his mind. She is so very beautiful.

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He cannot say why he is so blessed. Later that night, as he falls into sleep, he tells himself not to dream about the strange world that has filled his nights lately. When he finally does dream, though, he finds himself once more walking through forests underneath two giant moons. And this time, the whole world is calling his name.

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-- Candeth Martine

 

 

 

 

 

 

Denouement

or

A Death in the Family

 

Here is the important question, Mikael. As we approach the end of this story, a story of betrayal and violence, of hurt and loss, it is important to know: who is the villain in this tale?

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Trivial, you say? Of no consequence? Ahh, my old friend, I must disagree. There could be no matter of more pertinence. Look around us, Mikael. Chaos everywhere, structures falling apart, beings with malice in their hearts active in the land, while the pure amongst us are silent and meek. And all of it a jumble of tangled strings from which no one thread can be pulled and identified as here, here is the cause.

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But if we had a villain, Mikael, now there we could have a focus for our discontent. Oh, I do not need some mustached cackling fiend straight out of some hack Viamontian romance. Anything that obvious is rather...dry, don't you think? Dereth is a world of wonders after all, and certainly such a world requires a more robust antagonist?

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Perhaps someone who started off with a touch of nobility in their soul? Someone who had the best of intentions in support of a worthwhile cause. But slowly, the pressures of time and fate lead him on an ever slippery path, and so he finds himself sacrificing ideals and friends alike, all in the name of righteousness. Now that is certainly a possibility, Mikael. The movement from naive innocence to tragic experience is a stalwart theme of the best Aluvian literature.

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What was that Lucia said, in her 'Meditations on Pwyll', "Show me a pure heart, and I will show you a child." How unfortunately true, my friend.

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So now we close on our villain. A man soldiering on to fight for justice. But the forces of evil prove to be too much, and so he becomes corrupted by the very evil he hoped to vanquish. The ideals that used to be his inspiration: his family, his friends, safety and peace for all, now become mere stepping stones towards achieving defeat of his enemies. This is a sad tale we are telling here, Mikael. Should we stop? Surely two dear friends should have more to talk about than tragedy and villains? You wish to continue? So be it.

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But before I do, please permit me one small digression, a question that has long bothered me every time I read a sad story. At what point could the tragedy have been averted? There must have been some point, some crucial decision or conversation or action which, if having traveled a different path, no tragedy need have occurred. But then I remember that such musings are pointless. Stories are not reality. Still, sometimes I find myself, having read a particularly sad tale, wanting to confront the author, and tell him, "You did not have to have it end this way. You could have had the characters live happily ever after. It was in your power."

 

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But I realize it is only a make believe world, Mikael, mere figments of the mind, given life on a flat page. I should pay my disquiet no heed.

 

Perhaps it was my daughter that made me so skittish. When one has a young child, one is less keen dwelling on life's crueler blows. I have mentioned my daughter to you, Mikael, haven't I? Of course I have. Such a beautiful child. When I first arrived in Dereth, some ten odd years now, I believe she and my wife were the only things I could talk about. The only things that mattered.

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It amuses me now to remember how depressed I was when I arrived here. But you helped me then, Mikael. You saved me. You and the Society. I have always been in your debt for that. I owe you my life.

 

I owe you for so many things.

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I see it is getting darker outside. Time passes so fast. It goes by faster and faster the older we become. Have you noticed that, Mikael? Yet another difference between man and child. A day to a child is a significant portion of her life, each new experience something to be savored and analyzed; but the old man sees nothing new, and each day a sliver of mediocrity much like the thousands before it.

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And perhaps that is what motivated our villain (yes, I am finally coming back to the point; it was a long digression, Mikael, and I hope you forgive me it). A man who is not quite so young anymore, seeing his influence on the world slowly fading away, and determined to still be a factor in how the world changes.

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Such a consuming need to be in control, that he would even trade his friend to inhuman forces in order to have a chance to fend off the Shadow Lord when he appeared on this earth. And isn't that ironic, Mikael? That our villain conspires with the Virindi, betraying his own friend in the process, consigning him to torment and pain beyond imagining; and yet, in the end, his actions played almost no role in Bael'Zharon's defeat.

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The Virindi had always desired Shadow's end, and would have played their part regardless of the villain's machinations. But here was a fool offering a human experiment for something that they would have done anyway. It was an easy decision for them to make.

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It is the dark side of the coin of intent, Mikael. We choose and act as we see fit, and yet those choices can affect hundreds, even thousands of other people, most of whom are entirely unaware of the destinies that have been placed in front of them. It makes me curious about the man sacrificed to the Virindi. What happened to him? Did the villain, after all plans had finished and dark deeds done, give thought to what had befallen his old comrade? Did he ever ruminate on what the Virindi, designers of many an altered race, could do to man?

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It turns out they can do much to a man, Mikael. Did you know that they can make it so that one cannot recall to one of Asheron's lifestones? Is there anything wrong? You seem quiet. Are you comfortable? May I offer you some tea? No? Then I will proceed. As I was saying, it so happens the Virindi were able to do much with the man. They actually made him stronger, powerful...puissant is not an inaccurate term. Oh, I imagine there was pain in the process. Much pain, if I am not mistaken. But what matter that, when the end is so favorable. Another of Lucia's quotations come to mind, "Some desires require any path."

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And this man (even if he wasn't human any longer) had many adventures of his own. And at the end of those adventures, he had found that he had accumulated enough power to make his former masters his slaves. You should have heard Master and Jean, Mikael. I don't know what the Overseer had planned for them, but when I found them, and a few of their cohorts, their passage from innocent arrogance to experienced groveling was quite a sight to behold. Now all the wrongs committed against the man had been righted. All except one.

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It is another interesting thing about the stories of our lives, Mikael. A minor character in your story moves off of your page, and becomes the protagonist of his own tale, and then returns, after conflicts and resolutions, to once again feature in your book. And this happens all the time, thousands of times a day, people mingling and separating, with their petty desires and hopes, goals and dreams, all of which come to naught but dust as the planets move in their own travels. And what desires the spheres possess remain a mystery.

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Ahh, I see I digressed yet again. Where was I? Yes, this human, this sacrifice, had many adventures of his own, and emerged from them victorious and triumphant, revenging himself upon those who had previously shattered him. And that leads me to my question above. Who is the villain here?

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Was it you, Mikael, or was it me? Here you lay, pathetic and old, a bit character in an epic tale, and the audience has long stopped paying attention to you. And no matter to what depths you sank, no matter what covenant you broke or trust you betrayed, you stayed in that role. And what, in the end, did it earn you? To sit here subjected to some half-crazed, insanely powerful shadow of a human stand and rail against evils that you could no longer atone for? An interesting reward.

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Well, perhaps I was the villain. After all, isn't it the villain in those same Viamontian romances who always speaks the windy diatribe which reveals all the plot and motives to the inattentive reader? The narrative that shows the reader the ghastly potential of the villain's diabolical plot, only for the world to be saved just in time by the valiant hero? And certainly I have been the one doing all the talking here. You haven't said a word. So am I the villain?

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Then again, in those same Viamontian romances, doesn't the villain always die, slain at the height of his malfeasance by the hero? If that is the case, Mikael, then it would certainly appear as if you were the villain, and I, (and believe me, this comes as much as a surprise to me as it does to you) am the hero of this sordid tale.

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I apologize, Sir Alayne. It really has gotten quite late. I must be going now to check on my various minions. Wheels keep turning, and life does go on. Most of the time. Oh, and don't be concerned. I will make sure the Society is able to keep the Agents well stocked with Society and Explorer equipment. It is the least I could do for an old friend. I do admit I have some self-interest in keeping the adventurers happy and equipped. My future plans would be much more difficult without these lovely Derethians.

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-- Candeth Martine

 

 

 

 

A Journal by Martine

A new book by Martine.

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Part 1

All my questing, all my writing, all the bloodshed and violence and manipulation and destruction, all to this one central question, 'What do I have to do to get some respect in this forsaken existence?'

With all that I have experienced, with all the pain I have felt, and the pain that I have inflicted, surely something in there marks me as one to be reckoned with? Yes? Yes? Yes, I would think so.

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In fact, one would think that the mere mention of my name would send shivers amongst those appreciative of my talents. Have I not worked hard for this to be so? What more has to be done? Must I rid this world of every single living thing in order for someone important to realize that I SHOULD HAVE RESPECT?

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You appreciate the dilemma. What point the performance without an audience? But I need a better audience. One more finely tuned to...subtleties. To complications and ambiguities. Instead I strut on the stage before hordes of mice, old and feeble. And blind. Very, very blind.

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Hello, little blind mouse. And what do you call yourself? Are you one of those big, strong Lugians? Maybe one of those crafty Tumeroks? A slimy Mosswart? Or one of those flimsy, whiny Isparians? Or do you think you are a member of a higher order than these lesser races? Shadowkin? Virindi? You are all little blind mice to me.

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Me. Me, me, me. Ahh, the trappings of fame bring with it such an incessant need for details. What is my name? Puppet, Father, Martine, Lord, Candeth, Husband, Master. How old am I? I am 39 years old. I have existed for over 4 million years. Where do I come from? From a tiny jewel of a planet, nestled deep in the confines of blackness, protected by the merest layer of air. From a plane of Order, pure and crystalline.

________________________________________

I am the product of two cultures, two races, that should never have been fused. Human existence to the Virindi is like explaining to a singular point the existence of three dimensions. It has been a painful process for my former colleagues to adapt to this life. And those that I have adapted to my own needs have experienced even more pain. The Isparian part of me might have once felt sympathy.

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So here you stand, or sit; full of false bravado or having the good sense to tremble; wanting nothing more than to flee this place, or hoping to beg of me a favor in support of some ill-conceived notion that will result, at best, in another day's worth of cheese for your little mousy mind: reading these words. I regret that this is the only interaction we will share this day. I am not ready to meet my audience off of the stage yet. And you are certainly not ready to meet me.

**********

________________________________________

Part 2

Respect. That is the reason behind this latest writing. I will have it. Mark that down. I no longer yearn for love or sustenance, comfort or warmth. There is no security, and the purity of order has been exposed as the eternal lie. All are differing arrangements of chaos. Respect is the one goal I have left. It will not be denied me.

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I thought that going back to right the old wrongs would bring me the satisfaction I craved. First Arrgkh, then Alayne. I searched far and wide for the Overseer that made me what I am. To thank him, of course. Nothing. Did he perish as a result of his machinations? Or later, during the Directive War? He did not seem to be one who would have let my own plans go unchallenged, especially coming from a former minion of his. I still amuse myself by imagining our next meeting, even if it will only ever happen in my dreams.

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Eternal screaming. The Virindi in me will not stop today. As I mentioned above, the Isparian and Virindi mindsets do not meld well. He does not quite accept he is me. Most days I am strong enough to quiet him...to incorporate him. But after the events of yesterday, I am tired. Back during the days of Jean and the Master, when Martine was destroyed, I had an image that kept on coming back to me, over and over and over.

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I thought of God, a God who looked over his creation, and knew that he could not escape it. That he, and the whole of existence, would continue to be, for ever and ever. And he was filled with such horror at the unceasing pace of his creation, and his secure knowledge that there would never be anyone with more authority or power than him to give him peace or absolution, that his only recourse was to scream and scream and scream. Eternal screaming.

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Respect...when last I left you, reader, I was full of manipulations and plots, dreams and ambitions. I envisioned...well, perhaps those dreams are not quite dead, yet. Even with this meddlesome Directive, there are still ways for me to achieve my earlier goals. Whether I still wish to or not...but do not fret, little mouse. Enjoy that nibble of cheese. But it was that first meeting with the Directive that showed me that vexations do not cease when one becomes a cat.

**********

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Part 3

I went through a period in the management of my various pets, encouraging them to speak their mind. To let me know what they thought and felt. They had been a bit lacking in performance of their duties, and they seemed resigned to, not afraid of, the death and torture they were threatened with. Hence, an experiment with a new policy. One of the Isparians was reading through some of my earlier memoirs and apparently felt the need to comment.

________________________________________

"Exalted Master High Lord," he began (while I was encouraging more openness amongst the help, proper respect was still a must), "while I truly love all that you write, you display such obvious genius, I do have one small critique."

Of course, I was most interested in what he had to say. I moved in close to hear him better. Apparently, this made him nervous. I smiled pleasantly, "Please continue, valued servant."

________________________________________

"Well, your description of your various internal mental states is admirable. But I found myself wanting more visual description. Give your readers a better sense of, how do the Viamontans put it, 'Mise en scene.' I want to be able to see what is going on for myself, I need to be able to place myself in the story. And you might want to emphasize plot more in these tales. Where is the true conflict? The resolutions are rather...facile, no?" He finished with a flourish, truly proud of his analysis.

I, too, was impressed. I tried to distill his words to their essence.

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"So, you desire to be more immersed in my stories? My stories are chiefly concerned with pain. Let me help you in this immersion process." After his screams subsided somewhat, I proceeded to his next point, "And I truly apologize for the brevity and ease with which I handle conflict resolution. I promise you that I will practice prolonging and extending the amount of pain and conflict in my literary interactions. But what value a literary text, except how it mirrors in some awful way the real world? Even though you will beg for death and release, just remember that you are serving a higher literary goal."

________________________________________

My social experiment ended after that day. I do admit I surpassed prior motivational attempts with the display I put on with my Isparian assistant. My staff was very happy apparently to see the "nice Master" replaced with a more efficient and productive leader.

Fine, I admit I completely made up the previous anecdote. It never happened. Pure fantasy. I just get tired of being told that I have no sense of humor.

**********

________________________________________

Part 4

I would not have even been aware of the Directive agents coming to Auberean were it not for the Virindi in me changing his screams to frantic gibbering. "nononono howcantheybehere willtheykillme willtheysaveme pleasesavemekillmefreemenonononono"

________________________________________

It would be nice to say that I could hold a rational conversation with my own internal Virindi. That I could convince him that it was in our best interests, as long as we shared a mind, to work together to maximize the possibilities of our long-term biological happiness. Unfortunately, I once more had to rip the information I desired out of our frazzled mind. This was still early in the process of our symbiotic relationship, before I learned how to incorporate it entire. Unpleasant and messy, but better than the screaming.

________________________________________

I approached the agents of the Directive carefully. While I was sure that I could handle any individual Directive Virindi with little trouble, I did not know how powerful a group of them could be. Plus, I had never seen a "pure" Virindi before; all the Virindi I had killed or dominated to that point had been tainted by this insane and potent world. I "remembered", through my Virindi-half, what it was like to be a Virindi in a place where such conceptions did not matter. I was a bit awed of the remembrances of that power, to be honest. And the continual screaming and ranting of my Virindi mind-mate did not help the situation. So...I exhibited caution.

________________________________________

I had no trouble tracking the location of their enclave on Dereth. They took no trouble to hide it, for those with the proper vision to see. And why should they? They had no fear of these tainted rebels, this affront to the Directive and the Singularity. Their mission on Auberean was simple. Reacclimatize or destroy the rebels. There was never any consideration that the rebels were not, for all their follies, a simple matter of reassimilation, or that the same taint that had permanently corrupted the rebels may have some negative effect upon the arriving Directive agents. Dereth is, as they say, a place of wonders. And many of those wonders are educational.

________________________________________

There were three of them. Their purple cloaks shifted in the high mountain winds, as their smile-etched faces bobbed up and down at my arrival. They looked no different than their tainted kin, and yet they seemed odd. If the rebel Virindi had made strides, however laughable, towards imitating the Isparians, these creatures had still not begun the race. The explorer in me wonders if words will ever be able to transcend the alien; if the unimaginable chasms in perspective between two different cultures will ever be bridged by some universal medium of expression. Or is each entity surrounded by the darkness of interpretation?

________________________________________

I stopped several feet short and prepared my opening gambit, when one of them moved slightly back and spoke to his fellows.

"Query: Other prisonates one of us. Analysis: Mechanism involved speculative. Process: dissection, analysis, summary. Execute."

I had little time to wince at the contortions of their thought (they really did have a hard time understanding the world of the material), before the two front Virindi moved towards me, their scythes rising up for some apparent slicing and dicing. Enough.

________________________________________

There may have been a time when my ability to control the physical frame of a creature was limited to a simpler type of mind, such as a Tusker or Mosswart. That time had long passed. But I did not wish to kill these Virindi agents. I wished to discuss matters of state.

I could feel their confusion as I held them there against their will. They would have had no idea that there could be anyone on this planet with that capability. I relished them getting used to it. I spoke quickly and quietly, explaining what services I could provide for their "diplomatic" mission, and the price I would require.

________________________________________

The lead Virindi communicated my offer to the Director in charge of their mission. I was surprised that I could not overhear the sending. Once finished, the three of them floated in stillness. The answer came a few seconds later. Again, though I tried, I could not overhear their telepathy. I was slightly worried.

________________________________________

The same Virindi spoke loud and clear in my mind. "Abomination. Action-point: Surrender imminently. Result: Cessation, characterized by lack of stimulation of individual nerve endings and central receptive unit for a period of many local lifetimes. Divergent Action-point: Resistance. Result: Longer-term cessation." The doors to their mountain fortress opened, and Virindi began hovering out by the hundreds.

________________________________________

The Virindi in me decided now was a good time to double his efforts to free itself from our body. The approaching Virindi began their assault on my mind and body with psychic blasts and magical energy. The situation had begun to get out of control. I sent my Virindi self howling back to the deepest recesses of our mind under a torrent of pain and anger. I dropped the control over the three greeters in order to protect myself from the assault from above.

________________________________________

Besides, I didn't need to hold dead bodies. I lashed out at one along all of his soul points, crushing them into a metaphorical bloody pulp. He exploded over his two fellow Virindi. As my mind was doing this, my body took the dagger I kept at my side and separated the head off of another's body. The mask fell away, and had I time to look I would have enjoyed seeing the little tentacles flapping away on their journey towards oblivion. I stun the third one, I do need one hostage/potential experiment, and throw the flopping collection of mask and robes over my shoulder.

________________________________________

As I turn to prudently withdraw, one of their spells breaks through my defenses and slams in and through my other shoulder. The surprise of the pain cracks open my fields completely, and a horde of spells puncture and ravage my body.

So much pain. I mumble my "Shurov Thiloi" in a bloody froth, and struggle to maintain consciousness as I recall through my home portal. As I see who is waiting for me as I reintegrate at my place of seclusion, I lose the struggle.

**********

________________________________________

Part 5

I realize in my above description that over the last two paragraphs, I much too casually switch from past to present tense. Did it confuse you, dear reader? Did it prevent your immersion into the seamless tapestry of narrative that I am attempting to weave? Or did you not notice it until now, with me bringing it up?

________________________________________

Immersion is a dangerous process, mousey-mouse. Trust me. No? Shall you risk all that you once loved, all that you once held dear, in order to lose yourself in a land of make-believe and whimsy? For that is what I did, once long ago, far far away on the world of Ispar. If you have a desire whose call never lessens, do you answer it? Will it transform you or destroy you? Answer this before you begin the journey, youngling.

________________________________________

I am in the pursuit of power now. Power which will afford me respect. And once I have respect? Once the world knows my name and trembles at its mention? Will I be satisfied? Will I want more? Will I see what I have wrought and know it for what it is? A desolate monument in the desert waiting to be found by a people and time unknowable to me.

The problem with the Virindi is that they have never known ashes. Their journey neither begins nor ends. Except here. Here they discover endings. The lucky ones, anyway.

________________________________________

Do you appreciate the power of ashes? Do you understand the risks you embrace when you choose the path of unbridled desire? Shall you burn bright, flashing and dashing until you lay, scattered and minute, a layer of death and grey? Do you appreciate the power of ashes? No matter to what you may lay claim, no matter whom you have left trampled in your wake, ashes await. Ashes await, a wreath of dust denoting the only destiny guaranteed you this life: an end.

________________________________________

Do I sound sane? Do I sound wise? I'll stop soon enough. This is not the first time in my short (oh so long) existence that I have warbled back and forth between the realms of clarity and delirium. Back on that cold floor embedded deep in the Vesayen Isles, I first took that trip of madness, my eyes moons inchoate. I know that I have been the very essence of rationality in some of my previous writings, but I'll let you in on a little secret: I have never quite recovered from that initial ordeal.

**********

________________________________________

Part 6

As I lay in my sanctum dying, I could think of few worse situations than to be gazing up at the face of Asheron Realaidain. Master mage. Last of his race. A white knight, blessed under a halo of golden light. The reason why my former life was destroyed.

I lift my head to speak, but all that comes out is a flow of red trickling down my chin. I no longer have a heart. Why do I still need blood?

________________________________________

Hush he says to me. Rest. Accept peace, Candeth Martine. I will heal you.

Never, I snarl. Although nothing actually comes out of my mouth except more red. Life is easier when reduced to colors. Half of me is trembling with the need to destroy this arrogant invader, the other half preoccupied with the mystery and purity of color, until both halves resolve into a whole of increasing velvety blackness. Oblivion as the ultimate mediator.

**********

________________________________________

Part 7

Twice now I have lost consciousness in the presence of the fool, Asheron. Thrice would be too much to bear. This time I will stay awake or die.

Of course, this time, my body has apparently healed enough to make that a realistic boast.

________________________________________

Torchlights flicker in each corner of the room. Much too bright for my tastes. I no longer need such light to see. At least not to see those things that truly matter. The Empyrean are obviously not so blessed. My servants are nowhere to be seen. Or felt. Has Asheron destroyed them? I will not be such easy meat. I gather my energies. Softly. Slowly. Give me time, old man. Just a little more time.

"Candeth..."

________________________________________

"That is not my name, old man. Nevermore. Let it fall from your lips again, and sooner or later, you will regret it."

"What should I call you then?"

"Martine will do. Or Empyrean-killer, if that please you better. Yes, in fact, I think Empyrean-killer would be an appropriate name."

________________________________________

Stupid of me to continue provoking him when all I need is more time, more time to heal, more time to gather strength. And yet there is a cord of rage holding up my back, stiffening any flexibility of demeanor I would require to deceive the deceiver. As I watch him for any sign of weakness, any opportunity to strike, all I can focus on is his utter stillness; is he content? Dare he be? I will destroy him.

________________________________________

I will not prolong the demise, not for mercy or for torture. There will be no second chances, no intervention from an act of god (if such things exist, surely that God would have saved me back when it was still possible to be saved? Surely it would have never left me leave my home, my wife and daughter? Surely. Surely. Surely).

I only notice that my body is writhing in pain when Asheron moves towards me, a soft glow emanating from his palm as he brings it closer to my forehead. He speaks, each word a poisoned needle in my side.

________________________________________

"Hate me if you will, Martine, but you must find a way to control yourself or you will die here tonight. I would leave this place, my errand unfinished, to leave you in peace; but if you receive no further care, you will perish the same. If you have any hope of wreaking your vengenance on me, on the world, then survive this night. For you can do nothing resting in the land of the dead."

Clever trickster; clever, clever man. I will have my revenge. I will have it. I will survive this day, this time. Whatever it takes. I will have it.

________________________________________

The hated one continues, "When first we met, Martine, you were a coin fresh minted. Shiny but still soft. I was able to dictate how that meeting ended, although I still regret that I could not help you. Even though you did not desire my help at all, I still could have cushioned those raw wounds of the soul. But I had a more urgent matter to attend to at the time. I am sorry for that."

________________________________________

He taunts me with the memory of his mockery; my humiliation. During my search for Arrgkh, I had a rash impulse that I could not control: I would find this Asheron, find him in his place of hiding and destroy him. It was not just that his call had led me here to this doom and dim rebirth; I desired to place myself against him, to measure how far I had come and become. I considered him a fair challenge. I had been wrong, grievously wrong, and the reminder still burns.

________________________________________

I will talk no more about it except to say this: Asheron is not what he appears to be. The Aluvian folk-tales had a name for his type. Weyrava. Trickster and thief, deceiver and liar. The center of a hundred stories and teller of a thousand more. He is the shadow beneath the sun and the grave beneath the moon. Wife-stealer. Child-killer. Betrayals upon betrayals are the gift he leaves upon your doorstep. This is Asheron of the Empyrean. Let him dress up in his white. Let him preach his mealy piety and false humility.

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When the tale of Auberean has wound its way down, and the corpses of mice have long since turned to ash, the very world will curse his name with each feeble breath it takes. Asheron, the dying winds will mutter, Asheron. For if this world dies he will be the cause.

I will have revenge.

"What do you want, Empyrean? Are you an agent of the Directive? Have you plotted together to catch me here at my worst? Spin your pretty tale for me, Weyrava."

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"Whereava? I am unfamiliar with the term. And I am no friend of the Directive's latest sortie to my world, Martine. I promise you that. As for why I came...it appears that must wait. I need information, Martine. Information which only you can give, I think. But little use for us to talk about it now, like this. Rest and get well, Martine. Heal. You may think your path is set, the walls surrounding your destiny stone; but shall you be imprisoned forever? There are other ways, Martine. Other ways and other fates."

________________________________________

He is goading me, trying to get me to strike so he can obliterate me, and still frame it in terms of self-defense. He must appear blameless in this death, he must protect himself. I will not give in. I will not surrender to my rage.

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"Ask yourself this, Martine. Why did they merge you with one of them? What hope could they possibly have for such a joining? How is it that you have advanced so far and so fast, so much more than what any Virindi or Isparian could ever hope to be? Who gains from your independence right now? Who loses? Hate me if you will, but long have I travelled down my path, Candeth Martine, and these are the questions you must ask yourself."

________________________________________

I cannot think any more, I do not care anymore. Let him kill me. I gather up all the energy I have left. If defiance be not enough, then I will accept the consequences. It is only as the energy fills me, all my senses expanding to fill the room, that I find that Asheron has left. The torches have gone dark and cold, and only the four corners of wispy smoke hint that they had ever been.

________________________________________

As I let the energy seep back into my core, the word fills my mind. Coward. Coward. Coward. Coward. As I sink into the uncertain realm of collapse, I don't remember whom I am referring to.

When I wake up three days later, I almost convince myself it was not a dream.

***********

________________________________________

Part 8

That was over three months ago. Asheron has not contacted me since. I was so proud of myself that time so long ago when I found his hiding place and entered boldly and arrogantly. I have not been able to duplicate my success. Whether he is alive or dead, I cannot sense Asheron Realaidain on this world.

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Events have moved quickly. The Directive made its plans without my help, without my guidance. Even after I woke up, it was two weeks before I felt safe enough to journey outside again. My "help" had not been killed by Asheron after all, merely exiled from the room for a day. The Minions and Tuskers I kept; they are too dumb to know any better. The few Isparians I slaughtered for their perfidy. By the time I had caught up to the games and tricks of the outside world, it was too late for anything but to watch the inevitable climax of events.

________________________________________

Chaos won, again. I wonder where my former Overseer is now.

________________________________________

Even without Asheron, my rage simmers and bubbles, a constant flame stoking its turmoil. I have been played, by parties either known or unknown, and either option is highly unpalatable. If I were to meet Asheron now, at my full strength, he would feel my wrath. He would bow before me. This is why he hides. I have surpassed the strength of my Overseer a long time ago. Let it hide from me. There will be a reckoning. And if my adversary is still hidden in the shadows, a Weyrava who thinks himself cunning and quick? I will deal with him the same. I know the tales. I know the stories and how they end. Let him come.

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I am no longer a mouse. My claws are sharp and terrible. And I can play with my food for a very long time.

The Virindi in me awakes and cries for a little while before it falls back into slumber. It accepts the situation now. Mostly. It wakes fewer and fewer times each day. It knows what is coming and no longer fights. A mouse to the end.

________________________________________

I will not relate here the events of the last few days. Why I know that someone has attempted to relegate me to a bit player on the stage. It is not time yet. The game is still being played.

There are moves I have yet to make. The Singularity Weapons have served their purpose. Now they will serve me in another way. Come to my island, mice. Do not be afraid. Look at the piece of tasty cheese I have laid out in front of you.

________________________________________

Britana is another interesting opportunity. So fierce and proud, and yet undone so easily. My former people are a fragile one. Losing one's spirit and independence does not require torture by an alien race. It merely requires love. I have kept her waiting for the last week. Perhaps I should see her tonight. She serves the plan nicely.

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Once she had become besotten with me (I did not coerce her or manipulate her; although I could have. No, her falling in love with me was not necessary for the plan; it has only made the proceedings more amusing), I showed her some of my earlier writings. I was curious to see her reaction.

________________________________________

She blathered on for a long time. Her inarticulate praises are not worth repeating here. But one question stopped me short. Why did I do it? While I ignored the question then, after I left her I thought long about it.

For my former writings culminating in the Singularity Weapons, the answer was clear. I had a plan, and part of that plan required the majority of people to know that there was such a plan. It would have worked very nicely, too, if it hadn't been for the...not yet. He may still be watching.

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But this piece? Why this piece? Why am I writing now? I will have my respect, whether you, the reader, wish it or no. You will still be a mousey-mouse, reader, whether you know it or not. You will still savor your loves and desires, sob over your losses and grief, and feel the chill in your heart as you look at shadow or grave. And one day your cares will end, your body will rot, and your bones will grow ash over the long years of nothingness. All this will happen, whether you read this or not, whether you believe me or not. It is your destiny, child, and the walls surrounding your path are made of the densest stone.

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I suppose I write this because I enjoy giving you hope, much I have given to Britana over these past few weeks. You read this and feel those sparks, sparks of uniqueness and meaning, those two shields which humans have used to defend against the darkness since the beginning. You know that there must be some purpose to you having read this, some answer to glean out of the pattern and the weave. You read this and hope; you read it and wonder; you read it and think that the ending, your ending, might still change. And that is what makes this so fun.

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-- Martine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So long ago...a lifetime ago...time well spent.

*sigh*