Cosmology: Dawn RP

Discussion in 'RPG and OOC RPG Discussions' started by wanderingmagus, May 25, 2018.

  1. wanderingmagus

    wanderingmagus King Anakin's Royal Advisor, Constantly Around :D

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    Sign-up: "Cosmology: Dawn" Sign-up & Info
    OOC: Cosmology: Dawn OOC

    "WAKE."

    In the Beginning was the Word. "Wake". You have no memory before that. You wake, knowing Who You are, and What You are. Your personality is formed, Your speech and abilities innate and majestic, but Your memories begin with that one Word.

    You are Shapers, and Your purpose is to Shape the World that is Creation. This is the Dawn of Time.

    Before You is the Void, and in its midst, a Plane, empty, shapeless, awaiting Your Shaping and Will.
     
    Last edited: May 25, 2018
  2. Stonk

    Stonk Member

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    I have become. The space surrounding feels peaceful and expansive.

    I am Emptuma, the word of awakening still rings in my consciousness. I am alone, and where? I can see the surrounding emptiness like a medium. I move and a rush moves past me. I can hear it, I can see the fabric of it, I can move it as someone else might move their body. Glimmering giddily, I speed through the vast blackness, dipping and spinning in the glorious nothing, bounding and moving to the edges and centering myself again.

    But after a while, I begin to wonder if this is all there is. Is there anybody else? My... Maker. Where is the one who spoke the word which has awoken me? I have all this as a playground, but... Nobody to share it with.

    I am alone, and I slow. Exhausted, I just stop and wait, my shine dull and less than mirthful. I gather and fold the silence of everything around me like a blanket.

    Why am I here?
     
  3. wanderingmagus

    wanderingmagus King Anakin's Royal Advisor, Constantly Around :D

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    In that eternal Silence, that watchful, expectant anticipation, Emptuma felt a Presence. Not something which negated the emptiness and the void which was Emptuma, but... more, One Who Was and Is and Shall Be, and Emptuma knew that This One was the One Who had Spoken the first Word.

    "Emptuma, why does Your joy fade? Behold, I have set before You all of Creation, to work with and shape as You see fit. Rejoice, for You I have brought first into Creation, My Firstborn, Emptuma. Other Keepers and Shapers shall come soon to join You in Your eternal purpose, to watch over and guide and shape this Creation, but no matter what may come, remember that I shall always be here with You, and You need never be alone. Emptuma, My Firstborn, to You I give this Void, this Space, the Dark, the In-Between of things. To You I give the power to breath life into the very fabric of the gone. Welcome Those Who come after, teach Them and guide Them as I have taught and guided You. Be to Them the comfort that I am to You. When the time comes that mortal beings shall look up and down into the vast Nothing, embrace them, as I have embraced You."
     
  4. Stonk

    Stonk Member

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    I watch expectantly as a presence approaches. Perhaps "approaches" is the wrong phrase, the presence more made itself perceptible. I expected this presence, none the less. Perceiving it to be great and concerned, comforting and giving, I know no fear even when as it spoke. It was then that I knew who spoke the word of awakening.

    "The All-Maker, my creator, and the creator of the boundaries of this realm, it is to you that I owe both my exultation as well as my loneliness. I owe you a debt beyond my ability to repay, but also I owe you a bitterness you cannot know. You are not limited to the bounds as I am, you cannot understand being a shaper of the void with nothing to validate that void. I am Emptuma, and I am empty. I am loneliness incarnate. I cannot repay you, and I cannot forgive you."

    With that, I flare with rage and move towards the place I perceive to be the source of the voice, attempting to face the All-Maker. I fill the void with a light unknown to the realm, and it mars the void.

    The void is marred..

    I look back, confused. The rage has spotted the void with light. The fabric is twisted to remember this outburst, this flare, this hollow and unknown emotion. The first star is born, and it is born of petulance. I flutter back to examine the spot and it resonates with incredible heat. I can feel the lonely hate flowing outwards in a constant stream.

    "Maker! Why am I here?!"
     
  5. wanderingmagus

    wanderingmagus King Anakin's Royal Advisor, Constantly Around :D

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    Eternity flowed with absolute understanding, infinite patience, unperturbed stillness, as Void should be.

    "You knew Your purpose the moment You awakened, Emptuma. To Shape the World that is Creation. To watch over it, and guide it, through the long and endless eternities, until its ending and rebirth. And already, You have shaped it. Look!"

    The star blazed with a light and a fire which filled the void, and in its heart it carried a life borne of passion and emotion, still chaotic and unformed.

    "Your every action brings about change to this Creation, and now you have breathed life into that which once held only Yourself. It is Yours, this First Creation, Yours to name, and shape, and raise as Your own, or to abandon, as You choose. For that, also, is My gift, to You and Those Who will follow - the gift of choice."
     
  6. Kelmourne

    Kelmourne The Savage Hippy

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    Modaara awakens from his slumber, with infinitely grand symphonies swirling around in his mind, clawing to get out. In his left hand is Inyirin, the void flute. In the distance, Modaara sees a light start to take form in the void. He feels the winds of change blowing in his mind. He knows what must be done.

    Approaching the newly formed star, Modaara begins to play. The sounds of thousands of flutes play out at once, as a divine cacophony emanates from Inyirin. Modaara begins to shape the plasma of the new star with his music, creating beautiful and terrible shapes that appear for a second then vanish and reform, again and again.

    Modaara is upset that he is forced to play music on his own. He forms an elaborate plan. The music builds to a massive crescendo that results in a large mass of plasma being ejected from the star out into orbit. Modaara pursues this and uses his vibrations to stabilize it's orbit and to shape it into a perfect sphere. Then the music slows down to a drone, so deep and slow that it begins to cool the now spherical mass of plasma. Over time, it begins to form a rock like substance, though the core remains a heated ball of plasma due to the pressure.

    Gazing upon his newly crafted perfect sphere of stone, Modaara realizes his work has only just begun. For what must have been years, Modaara walked the land playing his music with such intensity that it blasted the perfect sphere's surface into all variety of shapes, as determined by the mathematics of his divine music. Mountains and valleys were sculpted onto the surface during this time. When he is almost done, he begins work on the tallest mountain of the land. Into the sides of this mountain are carved impossibly large horns, whose mouthpieces all converge in a plaza at the top. The placement of the valleys and mountain ranges was not random. From atop this plaza Modaara can bellow into the horns, and create winds that will circulate the whole world for many months. These winds will eventually find their way back to the mountain, whose many caves are carved with such precision that the wind will play delicate musical patterns as it blows through them. Finally Modaara had found his musical companion. He named the mountain Yar, and made it his domain. From Yar, the winds of the world were created by his music, and would return to play music back to him.
     
    Last edited: Jun 1, 2018
  7. warrior_squirrel21

    warrior_squirrel21 the poor mans old breed

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    Loosat sat in the dark.
    Well, sat is not the correct word, he moved and tussled into the blackness, but it was dark nonetheless. He could see nothing, feel nothing, and hear nothing, save for the ringing of a single word which he could not even remember. In this blackness he could feel himself, his very soul, trying to break free. This darkness would not keep him. Loosat struggled in every direction, his frustration growing endlessly, there must be more to this existence than pain.
    For a few rare moments he sat still. This was not an admission of defeat, only a strategical bout of concentration, and with the mightiest collection of willpower ever seen he created a single word. It was more than a word, it was a feeling. A plea, a cry, a last gasp of desperation when all options had been exhausted.

    Fight.

    Fight! And so he did fight. The rush of power filled him and tingled every nerve. The sensation swelled around him in a slick, heavy feeling. It was surprisingly cool, yet his anger and power quickly sent its temperature sweltering. From this fury was created the most malleable of all elements, and in time would be known as Water.
    In a burst of unrelenting force Loosat felt himself rise. It was an unmeasurable speed, his fury pierced the rough earth like the keenest of blades through soft flesh.
    With a mighty crash he burst through the ground, the warmth of air and light flooding his senses.
    This was life. This was the world. It was the destined plain in which he had been summoned to shape, and although he did not understand at the time, Loosat was doing just that.

    As he stared into the plain of existence, Loosat became increasingly uncomfortable.
    It was still.
    Certainly the ground had moved somewhat slowly into formations and the air occasionally trembled with a breeze, but there was a stillness and stagnation that he could not bear. It infurated him. How could the land not push against itself? How was it possible that any ounce of matter could stand touching another? His own mind responded with the spontaneous need to look down, and there he saw his first creation. Water. It burst forth from the earth in the same fury that he had. Slowly, yet swiftly, it pilled and spread, pushing the dirt away.

    It was glorious. It was joyful. It was movement.

    Loosat smiled for the first time in his existence. The sight of the ever increasing water filled him with joy at the same incredible rate in which it filled the valleys and swamped the plains. His will was manifesting, and within mere minutes to Loosat (yet a century or more to mortals) the Great Oceans had formed. These constantly moving bodies of water splashed and eroded the feeble soil of the world, and at last the God of Water was somewhat comfortable. It didn't take long, however, to notice the higher his oceans rose, the stiller they became in the depths.

    Something would have to be done to stir them.
     
  8. warrior_squirrel21

    warrior_squirrel21 the poor mans old breed

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    How long had Loosat been in the depths? The sunlight was almost non existent this low, but the darkness did not trouble him like it had when he had first awoken. Loosat could move here, and that made all the difference. In fact, moving was all he was doing. The stillness in the deep had not sat well with Loosat, and though he knew it was futile, he streamed this way and that through the blackness. As he moved he could feel the water surge in great currents that traveled all the way to the surface and formed into massive rouge waves. In tandem with these great movements Loosat willed the ocean to shift with his mind, creating the ever shifting tides.

    But it was not enough. Loosat began feeling strange, a sensation he had not experienced before. He was becoming almost........fatigued. The question again rose in his mind. How long have I been in these depths?
    Too long, he decided, and Loosat suddenly wished that he were not alone. If there were but one more of him, perhaps he could keep the oceans moving. But there was not another of him, Loosat was the only living thing he knew of.
    And at once he knew what to do.

    Loosat had fashioned 10 vessels, all shaped in a long, sleek, yet broad and powerful form. He had made them all from his own flesh, each one a massive piece of the exoskeleton of impenetrable armor that contained him. Into these vessels Loosat poured his will and essence in an intensity he had not felt since his escape from the abyss. As they filled, he noticed the texture of their bodies changing from the large plates into smaller, yet more numerous scales. The eyes grew larger, the tail grew wider, and the the noses became long and spear like. The most noticeable change, however, was the massive fin that began growing from the spine of these vessels. The creations were large to begin with. but these towering sail fins rose almost twice the height of their bodies.

    In a rare moment of pause, Loosat viewed his creations. His displeasure was paramount when he saw that they were still. How could he bring life to these vessels? It was in that moment that it all flooded back to him. There had been a word spoken, a single one, and only now did Loosat remember what spawned his consciousness in the black abyss.

    "Wake."

    And with an incredible fury, the vessels did wake. With an explosion of speed, the massive creatures roared through the depths, creating mighty currents that would not slow for ages. Some of them sprang out from the sea, leaping high and blocking the sun with their gargantuan forms. Joy seeped from Loosat in a way he had never felt. These were his creations, his children. Enthusiastically he rose to the surface, and the other vessels followed suit. For a long time he sat there, watching his creations swim and jump through the vast oceans with a speed paralleled by only he. It did not take long for him to notice, however, that everywhere his children swam they shed a minute amount of their scales that sunk down to the sands beneath. It would be of no interest, if not for the fact that the magic in these scales began to manifest themselves as unintended life. Small creatures that would be of no importance, or at least Loosat believed. Time, however, would change all things.

    Loosat spent what seemed decades swimming and playing with his children. Although they all had individual names, collectively he had called them the Tarjinal. Ages later, mortals would come to know them as the Godpikes, and some would even worship them. But for now they swam, and Loosat followed them. They played and fought one another with their massive speared snouts, the essence of conflict and challenge making up their very souls, and Loosat was proud. His children would forever keep the seas moving, and the tides would never cease rising until they dominated the land and the world was one great ocean.
    Loosats' dreams were interrupted, however, as he became aware of an unfamiliar element. Steam.
     
  9. RayCaptain

    RayCaptain Stranger in a Strange Land

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    "Wake!"

    More of a presence than a word. A command that genesised all and, with it...

    "Mo..." The earth erupted forth, an explosion of heat forced the ground apart, a great crag along the landscape, "Gan..." The earth heaved, as if in the throws of birth and spat out molten rock and cherry-red slag, and with it, came forth a hand of gigantic proportion. A being pulled himself forth from the earth's crust, a god.

    Mogan stood, a foot on either side of the crag, liquid rock and metal dripping from his slightly ajar mouth, ears, and eyes. Soot, smoke, and ash filled the air about the deity, steam hissed as the cool air met his molten skin all glowing, bright reds and deep oranges. Time passed, how long? Ages. His skin began to cool and darken and harden. A shell of impenetrable rock formed along the giant's outer layer, dark, and contrasted against his glowing eyes. Atop his wide head sat horns nearly as large as his short torso. An oddly proportioned being, Mogan stood as tall as the mountains that would become one of his symbols, but more than half as wide. Hair flowed from his chin and lip, all wild and covered with dust and rocks.

    He leaned down and, from the earth, pulled a pillar of metal, the first of its kind, and in the other hand found a great boulder of appropriate size. He exhaled. A sweltering breath. And the rock and metal were fused into the first tool. A hammer.
    "Bal," Mogan mumbled and gripped the crude hammer tightly. It felt right. To create. To meld. To take what was and make it more, better than it was. This was his purpose, to fuse and form. His eyes moved out across the landscape. There was the crag, the evidence of Mogan's birth and his first mark upon the world, it had grown cold over time and the sputtering and spitting up of molten stuffs had ceased and, over time, so had the black smoke that escaped the broken ground below. Mogan could see landscape, rising and falling, low valleys and rolling hills and high mountains. Then, there was the highest of all. It made an awful noise and the edges of Mogan's mouth turned downard. The landscape did not meet Mogan's expectations of craftsmanship. Any fool could pile rocks, one atop the other, and make a mountain. So too could any scoop earth from the ground and make a hole, a valley. Where was the art? He saw none. And that noise... He turned an eye up towards the sky, towards the glowing orb by which heat, a gentle heat, not like his heat, and light spilled out over the land. The light hurt his eyes and the heat was underwhelming where he stood. But... The star was beautiful, in a primal sort of way. Created in a rarge, perhaps by accident even, and it showed. It was rough... But still it shined. The light hurt his eyes and made the ram-horned god squint and frown deeper still.

    He could do better.

    Mogan frowned deeper still and grumbled at the sky above and landscape before him. Then his gazed lowered over time, towards the ground again until he observed the scar on the earth from whence he erupted forth all liquid rock and molten slag.

    He raised Bal above his head and the ground gave another roar, the earth quaked and shook violently, and forward erupted fire from the split in the earth. A mountain, no, a volcano, the first, came steadily forward, rushing up and up and up toward the sky. It took Mogan higher and higher, into the air, where he could see more of the landscape before him. Mogan lowered his hammer a little and the volcano slowed and finally stopped. In hindsight, it would be a small mound in comparison to some of his creations, and it was small in comparison to the Loud Mountain, but it was the first. His second creation. A sense of well-being and fulfillment welled up in the ram-horned god...

    Can do better. He thought and the fulfillment was quickly overcome by the need to do more. Taller. Wider. Better. Until it's perfect!

    Bal was raised again and the second peak of what would soon become the a range of smoking volcanoes roared forth, splintering ground and parts of the first. Lava spilled down the side and rushed over the land, streaming this way and that. The lava filled gorges and valleys, consumed small hills. The landscape before, a sculpture, was now met with the landscape of Mogan and his forceful smithing.

    Mogan went on like this for an age, raising Bal, raising mountains with hearts of molten rock, and some grew cold more quickly than others. He experimented with shapes and sizes. Some bubbled, some spewed, some exploded outright like earthen bombs. But the volcanoes all too soon quit producing and mountains seemed monuments of vain pride in his eyes. And there was nothing but the craggy, obsdian volcanic rock landscape before him did not sate his need to craft.

    Then... Boredom. Discontent.

    Mogan looked at his hammer. It took no skill to stack rocks. To move earth from one point to another. But Bal, his first creation. Two things made into one... That was how he would spend his days. But what was there to fuse? Small rocks. Big rocks. He looked again at Bal... And noted the handle. Metal.
    Magic filled Mogan's fist and he plunged it into the earth beneath him and pulled forth a new substance. Metal, this time iron. It dripped, molten from his fist and fell upon the earth, soon cooling and hardening. Mogan frowned. He breathed upon the iron heap and it turned into a molten puddle, spilling about. The frown deepened and more still when the iron returned to its hardened form. This would not do. He needed a constant heat... And a place to set the molten stuff to harden. He looked across the landscape of spires, some still spitting fire into the sky. That would do nicely.

    And so Mogan entered into the mouth of the volcano, plunging deep into the crust and then into the mantle, back into the earth from whence he sprang. And there he would reside for most of the rest of time. Below the volcano, he set up a workshop of sorts, the first great forge. From the mountain's fire, he could keep iron, and soon many other metals workable. He dug a trench into stone where he poured the metals where they formed many casts, and then he would strike them with Bal upon great stones to bend and shape them. Tools. Tools to make other tools to make other tool still! When the volcano's heart began to cool, Mogan would move on where he would set up another shop with another variety of metals, spilling great veins throughout all the world. But rocks were sometimes brittle and not dependable. So he made a new kind, from his magic and from rock. He squeezed the rocks and they became gems and crystals, in the image of the star above, but smaller and cold. Shining and many different colors in the dim light of the forge. And from then on he went about the world, shaping it as he moved and as he set up his forges. Mogan filled his days with silence other than the singing of his hammer, Bal.

    -

    Much time passed. The God of the Forge had tamed his wild beard with many bands of his created metals and adorned the bands with every gemstone; his horns too sported great bands of steel and gold with gems aplenty on them. Mogan yearned to see his mountains again, if just for a moment. Up, up, up he came. From the earth's crust and mantle. Day broke once more and Mogan watched the sun rise and then he watched it set. Though he had created gems that sparkled and metals with luster, he had not created any such thing as the star above. Everytime he would watch the sun rise, light spilled over the land. It was not fast in comparrison to his forgefire, which was but molten rock. When he blew into his forge, the magma would grow brighter for a moment and light up his workshop, but then it would dim. The sun in the sky did not need to be blown and neither did it dim throughout the day until it settled behind the mountains and valleys along the landscape. He touched his beard, full of the metals and gems and at this belt of tools. The gem, which he saw was not a gem at all, the star climbed slowly over the landscape and it filled Mogan with a sense of... Smallness. He did not appreciate it. This thing, this star, was so great and impressive. Surely, there was no better creator than he!

    Mogan entered back into the earth, with his temper high and fretted much over how he had been one-upped by another!

    "No one is better than I!" He grumbled and cussed the other creator, the strikes of Bal upon his newest metal were more fierce than usual and much less precise as the heat, his emotions, in his belly flustered him. His pride had been injured, "No one, none better than I!"

    Strike! Strike! Strike! Pain! Searing and then throbbing. Mogan had caught his hand with his hammer and it shattered his unbreakable stony skin. His lifeforce, a magma rock and molten slag, of sorts, spilled forth and splashed about the ground. The god howled and shook his hand, splattering his forge with the flaming bloodstuff. He cussed and he grimaced. How careless, how foolish, how unprofessional.

    His blood, magic as it was, fused with the earth and began to writhe and eventually, as it cooled, made noise. Slag and rock and dirt had become salamanders. Large, crude lizards that belched flame and magma. Formed of his frustration and in pain, salamanders were beasts prone to lash out and inflict pain upon those that slighted them or even were simply targets of their ill-temperament. But they feared and trembled at the presence of Mogan, beasts that feared grave injury, they fled from him and from the forge. Later, they would inhabit many of his old stomping grounds, the cold forges, where the greatest of the salamanders would bring a sort of second-life back to the volcanoes. Others wormed their way upwards and their offspring inhabited the land above, spreading fire and magma where they went.

    Time passed and Mogan's wound mended and his temper cooled. Never again would he be so foolish to allow a violent outburst like that. Senseless violence was beneath him.
    So Mogan went to work, still driven by the need to one-up the flaming gemstone that dwarfed his mountains and hills and valleys and spilled glorious light over them. He worked harder and faster and longer. His breaks, which were always short, became non-existent. The fires grew hotter, his strikes more focused. Bal sung louder and longer than ever before. Mogan's pieces and projects grew more intricate and more ornate, but between stoking the flame of the forge and hammering and shaping and finishing touches... He was the greatest smith, the greatest forgelord, and the greatest hammer-wielder that would ever be, but not even a god could be in two places at once. Too much needed to be done, Mogan groaned and gave into the reality of the situation. He needed... An assistant.

    -

    A pile of earth and rock and metal and gem before him, Mogan stared, hesitating. He had created life before, but it had been by accident and he had not liked what had come out. A fearsome and loathsome kind of beast of anger and pain. Salamanders. He would never make something so devilish again. Too did Mogan enjoy the pleasures of his solitude, seeking only the council of his own mind and heart. Pleasant solitude had been broken by the shrieks and floundering and scratching and belching of the salamanders, those wretched lizards. So he would be more careful... More precise. The horned god raised Bal and struck his hand. Pain! But this time... Mogan gritted and clenched. Magma blood puddled in his hand. He slowly and meticulously applied drops about the pile in front of him on his anvil. It began to writhe and smoke and, at the precise moment of genesis, Mogan struck it with his hammer. A great explosion! It staggered the stocky god.

    When the smoke and ash cleared, a number of entities floated about the anvil, only emitting a low hum and a red-orange light from about their core. Elementals, of rock and fire. They appeared as floating rocks, orbiting their glowing core.

    Mogan cleared his throat and grumbled, "Fire," After a tentative moment, the elementals floated towards the great bellows and began to pump while others fed lumps of magma into the forge. Mogan was pleased with his work... For the moment.

    -

    Time passed.

    Mogan had never been so productive! Tools and trinkets practically spilled from the forge and casts. His beard had grown longer and was heavy with gems and metals; his horns were more ornate than ever before. The elementals worked tirelessly... But...

    "Damn sky-gem," Mogan would peer up from the volcano's main vent and throat. The mountain's fire grew cold and the elementals were having trouble keeping the forge as hot as it once did so many years ago. The elementals grew older too, some had grown colder, slower, and some were entirely unresponsive to commands and left the forge. He did not go and seek them back or make new ones. There was no point. As the fires in the forge dimmed, as they had in all the others over the ages, he had produced much, forged much, hammered together much, but nothing he made struck him like the star.

    Mogan knew now that, even with the hottest and largest volcano forge and an army of elementals, he could not forge from iron and rock and gems anything that would compare to that thing that spilled light and warmth over the land. How could something that gave off such gentle heat be so... Perfect? His great fires had been overshadowed by the pleasant warmth of the star, and his clearest gemstones and most lustrous ores were not anywhere near as bright as it.

    Another approach.

    Mogan had learned that force and will alone, while both powerful in their own rights and formidable together, were not enough for every task. Different metals needed different hammer strokes, different heats, and had different properties. Gold, though it was not the hardest metal, bent well and could be shaped in intricate ways. The hardest metals would shatter, rather than bend, and so could not be made into ornate, but could make great tools. So, perhaps, it would not be from a forge of fire that

    Mogan would outshine the sky-gem.

    He stroked his beard and reminisced. Long, long ago... At the beginning... He had heard the word that brought him forward from the earth below. Someone had made him. And so he had gone on to make other things. Crude things at first and then more ornate and intricate. First, volcanoes and then tools and later jewelry and trinkets. First, salamanders and then elementals and then...
    "Deep-Folk," Mogan smiled and, for the first time, laughed in his hardy and earthquaking way. He set about on his most ambitious project yet. To make something more advanced than an angry fire-lizard or droning forge assistant elemental.

    The god thought of himself. Strong and proud, muscular and squat. He stroked his great beard full of bands and gems. They will be like me. He thought and nodded. But how? His magic bloodstuff could only produce low levels of intelligence and no sentience to speak of. No salamander pondered and no elemental could create. How could he forge, how could he genesis, something that could love to create like he? Mogan's heart ached... And then he scoffed. This would be most unpleasant.

    -

    Mogan exhaled a steamy and smoky breath, gripping the chisel at his chest, Bal out further in his
    other hand. He roared and drew Bal into the chisel, splintering and shattering the rockskin at his chest. Magma and molten slag poured forward. This was all for the perfect creation. This is how he would one-up the sky-gem! He felled the hammer into the spike again, driving it deeper into his chest. And again and again until...

    He tore a small piece of the molten heart from his chest and place it on his anvil. Up to the god's forearms were covered in blood. About him, the floor writhed with life, elementals, not of the drone-persuasion but erratic and frenzied, flew from the forge. Mogan poured dirt and stone over the piece of his heart and struck true with Bal and a great flash of light knocked him flat. For the first time since his creation, Mogan was unconscious.

    In his unconsciousness, it was black as it had been before creation, but not void as it had been. But then, images, scenes played before his eyes. No, his eyes were shut. It was his mind that saw these displays. Dreams. Mogan saw colors. Red. Orange. Yellow. He knew these colors, it was magma! No. Magma was liquid, it flowed this way and that, it grew cold and became rock and slag, tool and trinket. These colors danced. Fire. It was erratic, intangeable. He could not shape the fire before him, could not grasp it in his hands. It moved away and around him. There was, too, a presence in the flame. Now he saw it, before him, an entity, smaller in both height and stature than he. But he could sense a power like his own. The power of a god, one who held dominion over domain. Mogan was gruff and wide, his personality was belligerant and sometimes explosive... This one was beautiful and slender, with a resoluteness and control over what was rather than what would be. In his face, all of the future generations of mortals were reflected. They would carry a part of his lonesome soul within them.

    Before Mogan was the Keeper of the First Flame, the Lord-Protector of Mortal Creation, and God of Fire, Ignis..

    No words were said between them, but the father understood the son. Ignis existed not to rove and roam as other gods did. He stood watch over the First Flame, where all mortal life would spring forth eventually. His mission was to defend, if necessary with righteous violence, the power of mortal life until that time which was predestined since creation to allow the small beings to spring forth in multitude. And from there, it was Ignis' purpose to make sure that the First Flame was used to make wickedness. Ignis would fail, in time, for Ignis was the first mortal, though bestowed unknowably long life by his godhood. In time, over the eons and ages, when mountains turned to dust, Ignis would grow gray and his beauty would fade.

    Mogan fashioned his son, to fulfill his duty, a set of armor that reflected the flames like a mirror, a helmet with a great plume of fire, and a sword whose sharpness was unmatched, a sword with which Ignis had innate and unparalleled skill. And, in return, Ignis bestowed upon his father a share in the domain of fire. No longer would Mogan merely rely on liquid rock and the heat of his breath to smelt and meld and forge. Now Mogan would be able to create and control flame. A second gift, a small share of the First Flame to be expended on Mogan's next creation. By law of Ignis' destiny, no mortal was to be created before its due time, but, for his father, this law could be bent.
    The two silently bid farewell. Mogan was satisfied that he had created something far, far greater than ever would be created again, at least as far as he was concerned.

    -

    When he awoke, Ignis was nowhere to be seen, and the dream quickly faded from Mogus' mind as dreams do, and with it, the thought of his first son. There was an awful clamoring that took Mogan's attention...

    A murmuring. Little, squat beings were teeming about the anvil. Naked and hairy, they had rather square heads with locks of blonde or red or brown or black hair and their beards were wild and untamed. Some were looking over the edge of the anvil, far down below to the ground which they could not see for it was too far and dark for a mortal to see. Others were far from the edge, frightened at the prospect of either falling or simply the unknown. Others still were... Fighting. A red-headed fellow had a large black-haired one by the beard and was carrying on apparently intent on ridding him of all his teeth.

    Mogan exhaled and the breath pushed those at the edge of the anvil onto their backs. The heat caused all to recoil and cry out. The many little beings grew quiet. And then they set off, falling about their face, prostrating to Mogan and crying out. Some pulled at their hair and others bowed up and down. Mogan squinted and frowned. When he had created salamnders, they had writhed and screeched and made a terrible fuss but this... This was something all together different.

    "Cease your racket," Mogan muttered as he stuffed metals and rocks into the hole in this chest, holding it until it fused shut. But they did not. The sound of his voice caused them all to grow much, much louder. There was a great cacophony of wailing and screaming and those bowing did so with greater frequency and those pulling at their hairs did so with greater intent. Mogan harumphed and decided to simply start from scratch. He lifted his hammer high and the masses grew silent now. He looked down at his creation which he had decided was not only not greater than the sky-gem but was indeed much worse than all other creations... But...They possessed his heart. They were his kindred. Even if it was just a pinch of his own blood scattered among hundreds of them. Bal was lowered slowly to Mogan's side and he squinted still at his petty creation, "Deep-Folk," The words came slowly from his craggy lips and the beings before him trembled.

    There was a murmuring about them.

    He repeated himself and pointed, "Deep. Folk."

    One stood and looked about him, "Doh," He made a syllabic noise, "Feh,". The others murmured and he spoke again, "Doh... Feh," He motioned to himself, "Dohfeh," He had combined the two sounds but seemed unsatisfied, "Dwaw... Fuh,"

    Another stood and smacked his chest with his fist, perhaps rallying his courage, "Dwarfuh!"
    The sound came from many, uneven and scattered, and then slowly united, "Dwarfuh! Dwarfuh! Dwarf! Dwarf! Dwarf!"

    Mogan's mouth sat agape slightly. These small, fragile things had been born of so much passion and foolhardy courage... Sinking a spike into his own chest to remove a part of his heart, it only made sense that the Deep-Folk, the 'Dwarf', would be willing to overcome their fear to pronounce their own existence. And so they would go on into the future, stubborn and unafraid to pronounce themselves in the presence of beasts and other mortals and even gods. They bore Mogan's need to craft, his love of metal and rock and gemstone, and his cantankerous disposition. The Dwarf would be Mogan's answer to other creators. He cherished the Dwarves greater than even the sky-gem.

    But it was not long, in the timeframe of a god no time at all, nary a year, before the Dwarves - which did set up their own settlement at the edge of the forge, as far away from the heat of the volcano as possible, and sustained themselves off of minerals ground into powders, the occasional hunted small salamander, and a drip that came from a small crack in the wall, which had gone unnoticed even by Mogan's keen eye, his attention drawn to his work - had begun to irritate their maker. They were loud and fought constantly among themselves, especially over women and possessions. They had inherited Mogan's good characteristics, his courage and diligence but also his envy of things which he could not better and general stubbornness. His most esteemed creation drove him to fits of grunting and swearing and finally to leave the forge. But his created followed him from forge to forge over many months. They were stalwart and did not fear the long and dark journeys in the footsteps of their god. They followed with fire, which, since their creation, they had always known, captured from the old furnace in metal lanterns and sustained themselves off minimal supplies.

    Finally, at near the anniversary of their creation, Mogan had come to his wits' end and, resolute in not unmaking them, took the hundreds of Dwarves in a single handful and placed them deep into earth aside the veins of ore and deposits of gems. There, they slept until called forth later on.

    -

    Mogan went on, back to his work. He lifted Bal and the ground opened upwards and outwards, another volcano from which his forge would be heated. But, when the surface of the earth opened, it was beneath an ocean, new to Mogan, and it spilled down into the ground and into his workshop. The furnace was flooded and its fire choked out all at once. The cold, briny sea rushed all about Mogan. The god of earth and fire erupted from the ground, on a mountain above the seas, and looked out. Valleys had been filled, hills were the ocean floor, and whole mountains had been swallowed. Some of the larger were now islands, dotting the sea, smoke still rising from some of the young. He loathed it, this changing, moving, intangeable, unworkable stuff. It was cold, yet not firm, and when heated, turned to vapor and escaped.

    For the first time in ages, Mogan was enraged.

    "Who cools my forges!?" It was not a cry, a call, a scream, it was a roar. Lava poured from the great mountain and hissed as it poured into the sea. Steam rose from the sea and ash and smoke and soot blotted out the sun over time. The world surely appeared to be on fire. Land encroached into the sea as the lavas of the volcano slowly pushed back the waters, drop by drop.
     
    Last edited: Jun 3, 2018
  10. Kelmourne

    Kelmourne The Savage Hippy

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    [Moving this post below Mogan's first post since it makes more sense that way]

    For many moons, Modaara was lost in the music of Yar. The winds would come to him and play their music, and he would play with them, and send the winds back outwards once more.

    One day, the winds came back with an unexpected song. They sang of activity in the world beyond Yar. This was followed by cataclysmic changes that could be clearly seen in plain sight from atop his mountain. A great moisture was advancing across the entire landscape. Smoke was rising from the mountains. At the confluence of these two phenomena could be seen colossal plumes of steam as heat and moisture clashed.

    These changes intrigued Modaara greatly. The new events shaped the winds into songs that he could have never dreamed of on his own. Modaara developed an intense curiosity towards the causes of these events, yet he desired to remain upon his singing mountain of Yar.

    He devised a plan. He needed eyes and ears beyond his domain, and possibly, he would need messengers. Thus, he decided to create lesser beings in his image.

    Seven scraps of cloth, torn from his robes, each soaked in a basin of his blood. Humanoid vessels shaped by music from sand. In the centre of his grand plaza, surrounded by the newly shaped vessels, each containing the bloody cloth, Modaara began to play. He filled these seven vessels souls with the winds of change, and thus the first Changelings were born. Forever destined to roam the land, forever changing, they must never spend the night in the same location twice in a row. Each morning upon waking, their appearance would become new and unfamiliar. Formed of sand, they would sustain themselves on sand, and although they do not require water, without it their newly formed skin would become dry and desiccated. Blessed by the wind-bringer, they were naturally resilient to strong winds. Blessed by the musician of the gods, they were all talented musicians. Created as messengers, they were all gifted singers. When the winds flow towards Yar, they will play and sing their songs, and know that Modaara will hear their tales of the outside world on the winds.

    The seven Changelings began to dance to Modaara's song, slowly at first, then swiftly and chaotically. They were alive. That night, the seven Changelings left Yar, and began their endless journey across the Earth.
     
  11. Midnattblod

    Midnattblod Royal Wolf of Shadow

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    "Wake"

    The word rang through his ears. Thrulf looked around at the darkness, there was nothing. He could sense an object of some sort of far off in the distance, but he couldn't gauge how far it was. Lifting his face to the sky, Thrulf tried to pinpoint the direction, and, once done, he decided to travel towards it through the nothingness surrounding him. After an unknowable amount of time, Thrulf caught sight of a sphere of rock. Quickly, he approached it, only to find that it was rather low on life. Thrulf decided to alight on it and explore for a suitable spot to place the groundwork for something grand.

    Four soft paws lightly thumped onto the solid surface of the massive sphere. Thrulf could feel it moving beneath him, as though this rock was alive in its own right. His ears picked up the sound of water, and he saw steam everywhere. He deemed it necessary to try to stay unseen for the time being. He didn't want anything to disrupt his vision of tall monolithic structures that would perhaps add a bit of color to this world. Looking around, he saw a large wall of mountains to the northeast, and decided that they would give him some privacy while he toiled away.

    He was able to make the trip in a relatively short amount of time, and he found that there were a few small pools of water in the area as well. Slowly Thrulf went about working the land to fit what he envisioned. He inadvertently created small streams to spew out of a few of the pools. One of these was up in the mountain a bit, and came cascading down a small cliff, creating a beautiful little spot that Thrulf chose to be where he would rest.

    At this time, the light from the sky was beginning to diminish. This, naturally, did not deter Thrulf, who relished in the thought of the gloom. He continued to work the rock around him, mixing some of the water at hand until it slowly turned into a soft substance. Unsure of how it happened, Thrulf dug into it with his snout, and realizing that it was rather inconvenient to work the stuff with these paws, he started to shift into a different being. His paws became elongated, and he saw the fur regress into his limbs. He lifted up onto his hind legs, and before he knew it, was standing there, his hind paws having gained a length and width to hold his weight up.

    Thrulf looked around, and shook himself. That was odd, he thought. Looking down, he found that his front paws had sprouted long appendages, which he proceeded to flex a bit. Mayhap I can use these to help get through this ground, he thought. He dug his now larger front paws into the soft ground and found that he was able to move it more precisely.

    After a while, he had a large swath of the land softened, and began formulating how to get the structures from mind to reality. He looked towards the mountains, and thought that he could use stone from them as the basis. After a short trek, Thrulf stood at the base of the nearest mountain, and stared up at the immense height of it. He shrugged and started his attempt at breaking off a large chunk. Very quickly he discovered that th was gonna be rather challenging, though it was giving way slightly. He pressed on, the idea was too great to ignore.

    He toiled for a long time, trying his hardest to break off a good chunk, but it turned out it was all for naught. Stepping back, Thrulf found mere stones scattered around him. He thought hard of another way to get his plan in motion. Searching around, he found an odd looking pebble that seemed to be different than the others. Picking it up, he realized that it wasn't stone, it was something more organic. This is when a crazy though came to his mind. Turning away from the large mound of tough stone, he made his way back to where he had started his work. Once there, Thrulf dug a small hole near the cascading water, and placed the tiny object into the ground. He covered the hole with the displaced soil, and went to get some water.

    Pouring a small amount of water onto the spot where he had placed the pebble, Thrulf placed his hand on top and dreamt. Of a sudden, words unbeknownst to him came from his mouth, and he felt something growing under his hand. Lifting his hand up, Thrulf looked in shock as a huge vrown column shot skyward. It rose higher and higher, reaching for the sky. All around this column, other things were growing as well. He stood back and watched in amazement. Before long, there was a small copse of these brown columns all around this small pool of water. He could see green 'things' sprouting out from them, giving off a pleasant dimming of the light overhead. Thrulf looked on in wonder at what had appeared so suddenly. This was close enough to what he had envisioned, which pleased him greatly. He looked at the sky and noticed that it was dimming, so chose this time to get comfortable and plan more for the next day.

    This was his first day of work. He chose to rest a bit and allow the world to take his small alterations and allow them to settle before he continued.
     
    Last edited: Jun 20, 2018
  12. warrior_squirrel21

    warrior_squirrel21 the poor mans old breed

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    It wasn't that he physically saw it, nor did even smell it. Loosats connection to water, his very blood and life force, alerted him to some sort of phantom pain.
    Something was...killing the water.
    Loosat raced towards the shore, where the sensation had come from. It had been some time since he had thought to visit the frontlines of his oceans invasion, raising the Tarjinal had occupied his days of late. Indeed he had even developed...favorites.

    It didn’t take long for Loosat to gain sight of the shores. Things had changed since he had last been here. Instead of the Great Sounding Mountain standing lonely among feeble hills and plains, there were now countless mountains that blocked virtually any sight of the horizon. What was more, many of the closest mountains seemed to be ex pulsing their very cores, in a violent vomitation of glorious movement and fury. It had been a tinge of pleasure, for a moment, to Loosat to see the earth rebel on its own stillness. This faded quickly as he neared the shoreline.

    At the edge of a spewing mountain was the almost familiar sight of the ocean smashing upon the earth, but it was no longer uncontested. In the oceans path were lake fulls of the mountains burning bowels. This stuff moved, but slowly, and it was a glowing mix of bright colors. Where this molten earth clashed with the sea the elements burst with energy, and while his water halted the grounds advance, the water burned up and floated away. Its form had changed into a sizzling mist, the sight of which panicked Loosat. If the sea boiled away, surely it would float up and away, past the skies and towards the Great Orb that lit the world. In a rush Loosat rose up and stood on the sea, and the tides themselves rose with him. Higher he climbed, until he could gain a decent view of the spirals of mist that arose. Loosat reached out his arms with open palms, and the escaping mists shuddered with slight acknowledgement. He was in control, he thought. Even now in its dying form the ocean would obey him. Loosat thrust his arms downward, trying to bring the mists down, back into the sea. His eagerness was shaded, as he saw that it could not be done. The mist just wasn't heavy enough, and it was different than the sea spray Loosat knew. It truly was the first great breathes of steam. Loosat tried and tried again, but it was no use. The mists always rose.

    After several more pointless tugs at the escaping vapor, Loosat had an idea.
    Maybe if the mists were brought together they could be lowered?
    It was worth a shot. Loosat brought his arms together and commanded the vapor to mix and form together. It was working. The more mist he brought together the denser, and darker, the collection became. But all the same, the vapors would not come down. They tended the drift away, these collections, in a much more unpredictable and increasingly horizontal fashion. Loosat continued to bring the steam together, but each time he did it drifted away from the next batch. There was a sudden silver lining, much to his pleasure, as some of the more recent collections had begun to seemingly leak. These dark masses of vapor had become black and porous, swollen and dripping water back down to the ocean. Except now several of these black masses drifted swiftly across the land, and for the first time Loosat was truly aware of the wind.
    Where had it come from? he thought, Indeed where had this molten earth come from, as well?
    Perhaps Loosat was not as alone as he had previously assumed.

    For now, however, Loosat gazed at the sky. He had been creating these floating forms for quite some time now, and he noticed that the rising steam tended to mix and branch off from the existing giants. Loosat looked upon the filled sky and thought of them, they were different than mist or steam now. They had become on obstruction in the sky, an unforseen carrier of his lifeblood, that now drifted far and almost out of sight across the landscape. They were....clouds. And Loosat came to love them.

    ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    OOC: I will follow this up very soon, and may just edit it into this post.
     
  13. Kelmourne

    Kelmourne The Savage Hippy

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    "Wake"

    Osseon woke in the infinite void. Seemingly featureless, save for their own conscious mind. If mind is all there is, then this is what the Maker must desire them to explore. Osseon began to dream. Within the dream, they discovered another mind, which they came to know as Emptuma. In dreams with Emptuma, Osseon would always see the same thing; a burst of rage, followed by light that would not cease.

    Something woke Osseon from their dream. In the waking world, far below the dark form of Osseon, he saw a bright light come into being, and knew that it was birthed of Emptuma's rage, as foretold in his dreams. In some span of time, short or long Osseon did not know, another being approached the light and birthed a smaller object, which would orbit the light in cycles. From the emptiness of the void, Osseon could hear a faint humming noise from the orbiting object, which came to be known as Earth.

    Osseon began to see more than the sun and it's Earth, but also the intangible pulls that they exerted upon eachother. In seeing them, they became tangible. Like a great spoke, connecting the two on some invisible wheel. Osseon reached out with their mind to increase and decrease the speed of this spoke's revolution. As this happened, the hum from the Earth rose and fell in pitch.

    Osseon attempted to drag the spoke in the opposite direction, and a great pain shot through his mind as the hum became discordant and sharp. That which is, never was. That which was, is again. Osseon decided that this was not to happen again.

    All of this, in Osseon's opinion, was distraction from the Maker's true goal, the pursuit of consciousness. The new humming noise would rise and fall in pitch if left to it's own devices, thus keeping Osseon awake. Osseon found that if the spoke could be made to revolve at a slow, and constant speed, the hum would lull him into a sleep from whence dreaming could continue. But the spoke could not be controlled unless awake. As such, Osseon entered into a state of half-sleep, from whence the spoke could be made to revolve at a slow, constant speed, and from which Osseon could continue dreaming forever. And thus, the period of revolution was made to be exactly 432 days.

    In dreams, Osseon would bear witness to the past, as well as the infinite possible futures. The future was a frayed knot, becoming tied together into the single strand of the past. For many years, in all dreams, the sun continued to shine brightly. Half awake, Osseon could see with his half-closed eye that his dreams of the Sun's future were projected across the void, far above the Earth, and Osseon came to call this phenomenon "Stars".

    Osseon grew comfortable with his arrangement with the heavens. The Earth's regular movement around the Sun would produce a relaxing hum to lull Osseon into dreams, and the stars of the Sun's future would shine brilliantly upon his half-awake eye.
     
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  14. RayCaptain

    RayCaptain Stranger in a Strange Land

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    "Wake!" A distant humming in the conscious.

    "Wake!" Nearer now. A rustling beneath the surface of the waters.

    "Wake!" A blood-curdling scream felt throughout eternity.

    Reality is rend apart, excruciating, unbearable, maddening agony. Maddening. Maddening. Maddening. Pant pant pant. A quickening of the pulse, a nauseating chill up the spine. What's that out of the corner of my eye? Who's there? Something behind you. Something inside me. Inside my head, underneath my skin. It's crawling. Get it out get it out get-it-out-get-it-out!

    Gagging. The sound of violent retching. Discomfort. Can't get comfortable. Cold sweats. Burning fever. Can't catch your breath. Can't lower your pulse. Your heart in your throat. My heartbeat in your ears. What's that in the corner of my eye? Who's there? Something... Something... Something... A gnat in your ear. Buzzing. Buzzing. Worms. Writhing. Squirming. Uncomfortable. Discomfort. Can't... Get comfortable.

    Everything all at once. From nothing. Nothing into something. Void and then... Eternity all at once. The end at the beginning, the start at the cessation.

    A quickening of the pulse.

    -

    Whether by some maliciousness or error of the Creator or some other entity, when the void was torn from that which was, Z'ozal ended up on the wrong side of the curtain. And from that moment, Z'ozal rebelled against it all. Existence was a burden for it because reality, from its start, became ever more structured. The beings that were, the gods, all tended towards order, even if they called it chaos, it was predictable, it was concise, it followed a pattern. No, that wasn't it. Order was not the source of its discomfort. Existence was. Not that it existed, or that others did, but that existence was a concept made into fruition. Life, death, and everything in between and on the sides. It all hurt.

    -

    When reality was separated, void from creation, or perhaps before that... Perhaps it was at the start before the start, when the Creator shouted it all into genesis...

    The sound of retching and wailing. Pain and sickness and rage and madness all at once.

    -

    A swelling consciousness pressed forward out of the void, a mass of belching, squirming chaos. Its form changed faster than could be perceived, every piece that formed flinched and pulled away from existence, desperate to be unmade, to never exist, and so it was made, birthed, decayed, and died all at once. All at once. And this moment was all discomfort. Every moment of every moment of every moment, new pains spawned and died, all overlapping, all building into a crescendo that never stopped.

    -

    Z'ozal hovered above the earthen ground, still uncomprehendable, unknowable, undetectable. It sprawled endlessly before its ever-changing mass. Time, reality, slipped by unnoticed and great winds pushed the earth up and down. Then followed fire and water. Or was it water and then fire? Z'ozal became aware of... Moments. Time. It did not comprehend, but it knew that... Time was passing. A mass of energy orbited the earth. Or was it the other way around. Darkness speckled with light.

    Trembling breath. Rabid and trembling. Chattering and gnashing teeth. Z'ozal observed its form.

    A weeping, shivering mass.

    What color? What size?

    Z'ozal focused harder upon itself from afar.

    There was... A shroud? Something it could not quite see past. Every moment, it was almost in focus and then, blurry. Incomprehensible. Every time it got nearly into focus, there was an awful racket about its mind. The gnat in its ear buzzed violently, the worming in the flesh peaked, and the noises, the smell... Z'ozal gagged.

    With that, it swore off trying to see itself.

    The earth about it disgusted it. No matter what, no matter what force or chaos came against this... Reality... It was always there. If mountains were struck, they fell apart, but then there were many smaller rocks. Those rocks could be struck about until they were dust and sand and the dust and sand could be kicked about... But, in the end, there was just the same amount of matter. Z'ozal did not have the power to unmake, to destroy, not really. It could bend and break, tear and smear, sunder and rend, but it was always there.

    -

    It wanted to see itself again. How much time had passed? Didn't matter. An eternity, a moment? Hadn't it sworn off seeing? A lie. The first. To itself. About itself.

    Lie about yourself. Perception is reality is perception is what you make is a lie is horror is madness.

    Z'ozal gazed upon itself in the great span of space. No longer was it about the earth or even nearby. Another realm? No. It was still here. On this plane.

    It gazed upon itself and saw a hundred, a thousand, a plethora of masses. All different. All the same. This was it, this is how it could know itself. There were great masses of tentacles and appendages with many mouths. Forms like faces of unknown entities pushed their way up to the surface and cried out or retched before being gobbled up by the next. Another was a great eye, it quivered and pulsated, looking here and there, forever widening; an eye that perceived all horrors and all terror and all fear. Another was a great mouth, a maw, bottomless. To enter was to stretch into the void, into nothingness. Rows and rows of teeth stretched into darkness and tongues expressed from the pit. There were so many others, but none of them were it, the true form. In the center or perhaps on the fringes, perhaps all about, it existed.

    -

    Z'ozal stood upon the ground. Feet in the dirt. It scratched at its skin until it tore and bled. Insatiable itch, existence caused it. An irritation in its mind.

    A pause.

    Skin. Bleeding.

    It observed itself. When had it gotten back from the reaches of space? It orbited this new form. It was small. So small. Pale and thin, a structure of bone with flesh stretched tightly over. Tendons and corners of bone stretched the skin taut. It had two eyes. A mouth. A nose. A face. Where had it perceived a face? Upon the others. What others? The gods. What is a god?

    Long fingers pushed and pulled, scratching insistently at the flesh. Z'ozal looked over the form. It was smooth all over except for where the bones and tendons pulled. Its eyes though... They were small and watery and pink around the edges. They stuttered and shook and darted this way and that, never stopping. Unlike the great eye form, with its maddening glare, these two beady eyes that bulged slightly from their sockets did not seem to take in their surroundings. The darting was less a looking around and more of a shaking. It was a pathetic and sickly form. It would do.

    The scratching stopped and the skin ceased its oozing. The long fingers on its hands on its arms rested by its side and it stood there, stock still, with just its shivering eyes.

    Z'ozal existed behind and above the form and willed it forward. It stepped. Once. And then twice. Z'ozal giggled, trembled, pulsed with manic delight. It was so small, so weak, so wretched! This thing. Z'ozal wanted to shatter it. Not physically. No no no no no. Z'ozal wanted to warp. Push and pull and bend and make mockery of.

    Where Z'ozal hovered, its shadow cast down a presence all its own upon the earth. The ground where the shadow fell festered and then oozed. It observed the ground and the ground began to pulsate violently, rebelling against Z'ozal's presence? No. Against order. Against wellness. Against reality itself. This was the place of the first blight upon the world. Sickness seeped from this festering wound and would, one day, infect the land, the sky, the sea. and all the realms beyond.

    Disease. Sickness.

    There were more now. More of a presence. More was being created. There would be no end to Z'ozal's discomfort. No end to the gnat in its ear, the nails in its mind, the grating against its consciousness. It twisted about to observer the surrounding. There was a presence from the mountain, the tallest one, far, far away.

    Z'ozal was there the next moment and placed its small form upon the ground for but a moment and then it was away again. Z'ozal feared the god within. It tingled and thrilled it. Those feelings. Those... Emotions.

    Panic. Mania.

    Z'ozal drew near another mountain, this one on fire. Deep below, it heard the clash of rock and metal. Then of furor and from the volcano spilled forth worming beasts of slag and molten rock, salamanders. Those that looked up towards Z'ozal wilted and became sick with madness and tore at their own flesh and slithered away. Their fire was made bitter. Those touched by it would burn, like touched by fire, but it would infect them, crawl through them, make them wither as Z'ozal had made the salamanders.

    Venom. Poison.

    About the greenery of the land, Z'ozal's form hung above the canopy and the nearness of it wilted the tops of the trees. Where the leaves fell, so too the ground was poisoned and sullied.

    Decay. Rot.

    There was a great light from the volcano, not a physical one, but one of great, impossible magic. Fire. No. Yes? Life! Mortal life. Hideous beyond even what Z'ozal would allow. Then, in a gasp, it was gone.

    Away from this place!


    -

    Z'ozal was in space again. Observing now a great wheel turning, turning, turning, its eye seemed to slip to and fro from rest and wake. Of all the gods, this might, perhaps, be the most powerful. A great keeper of order and time. This would be one of Z'ozal's eternal enemies. The great wheel of time, moving ceaselessly forward. The noise of reality slipping by, second-by-second, day-by-day, eon-by-eon...

    Z'ozal twitched and was in another part of space. As far away as it could get. It hugged the edges of reality and nestled in the corners of the realm. This would be the home of the true form of it, of the Blight. It would wait here and contemplate... All creation. But especially that light and fire of mortal life. If the initial creation caused Z'ozal such discomfort, many times multiplied was the discomfort caused by the heat of the fire of life.

    It waited.
     
  15. wanderingmagus

    wanderingmagus King Anakin's Royal Advisor, Constantly Around :D

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    Wake.

    The night sky seemed to ripple, a portion of it turning into cloak as a face, curious but dispassionate, looked out over - everything. Unknown eternities passed as she contemplated its immensity, its... simplicity.

    A limb, no, an arm, with a hand attached to it, long and slender, reached out from the cloak of stars, opening an already-ancient book of Records, and the Wanderer read as the words appeared upon the pages.

    In the Beginning was the Word. "Wake". You have no memory before that. You wake, knowing Who You are, and What You are. Your personality is formed, Your speech and abilities innate and majestic, but Your memories begin with that one Word.

    You are Shapers, and Your purpose is to Shape the World that is Creation. This is the Dawn of Time.

    Before You is the Void, and in its midst, a Plane, empty, shapeless, awaiting Your Shaping and Will.


    Such simple words, yet such power and meaning were held within them.

    The eye upon her forehead shone like a pale echo of the stars above, and she observed it all - the rage of Loosat and Mogan, the confusion and jibbering hate of Z'aozal, the calm observation of Osseon, the ecstatic music of Modaara. She watched the mountains form, the seas rise, the fires explode from the heart of the earth, the plants spring forth from the earth. She watched the magma of the volcanos turn water to steam, which condensed into drifting clouds and poured down rain upon the fields and rapidly spreading forests. She watched plague and rot, disease and decay spreading from the constantly-shifting form of the Blight, and Its fleeing to the farthest corner of Creation, such as it was.

    It was not enough.

    She held out her other arm, and in her hand appeared a long staff of every wood imaginable, engraved with the runes and signs and forms of languages that did not yet exist, some that would and could never exist, capped with the head of an animal that was still only a possibility in the eternal visions of Osseon.

    Raising her staff, the Wanderer uttered a Word, one which was new, yet embedded itself in the very fabric of Creation. Part. It did not so much tear through reality as Z'aozal did, so much as separate, as one might separate a lump of clay into two parts. Yet just before the parts were broken completely from each other, she stopped, and turned her hand. Again reality shifted, but this time the shapeless form that was once Creation was coalescing into something else. Weaving the eternal and endless visions of Osseon into the cohesive whole, and basing the form to some extent on the new creations of Thrulf, she molded the threads of Time and Space, such that from outside, one could observe each choice and possibility, in something resembling a Tree.

    But still, it was not enough.

    She went to the far edges of reality, though not too near to Z'aozal and the massive Rift, and her staff moved again. The endless void bent into a massive set of Gates, set such that it could be barred from either side. The outer side was constantly changing in form, appearing and disappearing at random, as chaotic as the writhing mass of Z'aozal, while the inner side, facing towards the rest of Creation, was orderly, to her eyes. Its inner side was many-faceted, and each facet appeared in a different place in the vastness of Creation, in the form of an arch or a gateway, in myriad forms. The greatest of these gate-facets lay upon that hill where the Blight's writhing form first rent itself upon the world, and manifested as a tall archway made of two stone pillars and a stone beam laid across the top. Around this gateway, the Wanderer placed smaller gates in a ring, and laid upon it a spell which only the very wise and mighty could traverse, by means of which one could pass through the gate - else it remained merely an unremarkable archway of stone.

    Once more lifting her staff, she grasped the edge of her starry cloak, and let it drag upon the ground, and where it dragged the earth became firm, such that animal and mortal and god alike could travel upon it with great speed without tiring. She pointed the staff forward, and several of these paths passed beneath the archway of the lesser gates, and left the confines of the world, entering that other space she had parted from the first earlier. There, too, were mountains and rivers, oceans and planes, grasslands and forests, linked in some way with the world on the other side, yet the distances shifted as easily as the currents of the sea, and that which was far in one world was near in the other.

    Again she spoke. Part. And more planes were divided from the world, yet the world was no lesser nor smaller for it, and its infinite vastness was rather extended than diminished. Vast and empty realms she made, palaces for each and every god that was, and for all that could be in the endless visions of Osseon, each connected to the other through the many-sided Gates and Weird-Ways she made with her starry cloak and wooden staff.

    Still it was not enough.

    She looked at the writing upon her staff, and then upon the world and all the realms she had shaped, thinking. Then she opened the Records, and spoke once more.

    Weave.

    And Creation wove together.

    Her Third Eye blazing with light brighter than the Sun, the Wanderer seemed to flicker as she went from this place to that, sometimes appearing in many places at once, sometimes vanishing altogether. Within the strange cobweb that Reality was now becoming, her wooden staff was now a needle, and Reality was the thread - not Time and Space, but a sort of energy, a force, a concept, which existed yet was not yet acknowledged, was not yet Shaped...

    Magic.

    That was the name she would call it. The Word echoed, and imprinted itself upon Creation, like the other Words. A new line appeared in the Records, which grew into a list, one which no mortal could read in its entirety without divine guidance, one which if uttered aloud by mortal mouths could destroy them utterly.

    As she wove, she observed, and as she observed, Words would appear in the Records. Words for concepts, for Commanding, for Shaping and Breaking. Some could only be pronounced properly by gods, others could be whispered by even the weakest of mortals. Each was powerful, a shape of Creation, not so much stamped upon it as a sound which reverberated with it, as the winds of Yar shake its many halls and caverns with mere echoes.

    The Shapes of her weaving also gained power as the pattern grew more and more sophisticated, collections of lines and shapes which could raise armies or smite them, raise up storms, bring down lightning, spawn fire from thin air. Signs and Runes, Sigils and Letters, each found their way into the Records, which grew longer and longer, until it was a tome of countless pages.

    When she had finished, she looked once again upon Creation, and smiled.

    Yes. Now it was, perhaps, enough.

    To each god, she offered up a realm, a Sanctuary, a place which they could find rest in, or some form of comfort. She did not force these upon them, but merely offered them up. If they took it, they could shape its interior to their hearts' desire, whether an endless void of nothingness, or vast forests stretching to unknown distances, or a churning ocean of infinite depth and breadth, it was theirs, and theirs alone, where Creation had to be shared.

    In the spaces between ran her paths, her Weird-Ways, and at its center was the Crossroads that was the First Gate, which was also the Outer Gates, beyond which lay the Rift, and the flinching, hateful form of Z'aozal.

    Satisfied, she opened the Lesser Gate which lead to an unclaimed plane, and filled its vastness with countless books and tomes, shelves and walkways, seats and tables, halls that stretched to unknowable distances, lit with glowing Shapes which would one day have Names. Opening the Records once more, she sat down at a chair, and began to read.
     
  16. RayCaptain

    RayCaptain Stranger in a Strange Land

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    Mogan exhaled, steam came from his nostrils. He called once more for the loathebeast from whence the waters came to show his face and receive his reckoning.

    There was a long moment and the magma and waters churned in the depths below. There was much hissing and crying out as rock formed, taking back, inch by inch, foot by foot, the landscape from the watery blanket that suffocated and saturated it. Smoke, or what looked like smoke, rose all around. It was odd and, if the ram-horned god had been paying much mind to it at all he would've seen (for his sight was that of a god who could see even the smallest of flaws in the metals he forged and the most minute impurities in the gems he worked) that what he took for smoke was actually tiny particles of water. He may have waged war there and then against it, fearing it had come to overtake him and his precious land. But the Fire Under the Mountain was focused on the waterscape below, what of it he could see through the dense vapors that were now collecting about his head in clouds that grew darker and darker.

    He was struck upon his wide nose and it caused him to flinch. Then again, this time about his face and then his wide shoulders. Mogan's craggy, stone-like skin, under which one could see veins of his molten and fiery bloodstuff, sizzled and hissed and it caused him to recoil (not out of any pain, but through sheer start). Mogan, the God of the Forge, cried out in his seething rage, hissing smoke and spattering magma from his large lips, "Wretched thing! Foul beast from the cold fluid landscape below, and now hacking upon me from the skies above! Below or above, sea or sky, great ocean or rain-" (He did not know how he knew these terms, they simply came to him in the moment of reality and he did not question it) "-A thousand, pitiful pains on you. Dishonor! Show yourself to me so that I may have at thee about the head and neck with my hammer!" Mogan waved his hammer above his head and fire shot from the mountain anew, rushing magma down the side of it towards both the ocean and back away towards the land.

    In the distance, Green things began to appear. (I know he hasn't made his "official" post full and true just yet but we'll pretend)

    The rain started now, the clouds made even heavier with the ash of the volcano. Real rain. It came down in sheets, in blankets, in thick, woven quilts. It drenched Mogan and choked his nostrils with steam and filled his open mouth so that he could not continue his belligerence at the unknown cuss which made his mountains into islands. Mogan spat out the water and soon, like the booming of his volcanoes, his flared temper had passed on. He settled and stood still in the rain. And it rained and rained and rained on him like that for many days. With the subsiding of his temper, his volcano ceased its violent eruption and gave over to a slower, gentler oozing of the mantle up through the earth's crust. Fire rock and cold water still made new, black earth below the ocean's waves and the sea still churned in violence against the creation that imposed itself upon the borders. For an eternity after that, many treaties would be made and broken between Mogan and Loosat, who had yet to meet, truly meet, though they knew one another in their hearts as did two brothers who had been apart all their life and saw each other in some union of fates. The lines of the nation of land and the nation of sea had been drawn. Oceans and continents, seas and peninsulas, lakes and archipelagos, ponds and islands. There would be much rivalry between the two. Loosat would send great tsunamis and storms to reclaim beaches and swell his rivers to swallow up the surrounding landscape when the spilled their banks. Mogan would send forth streams from his volcanoes, both on the edges of the seas and underneath the waters, to make new land, and he would make earthquakes so whole oceans would shift and fall away in a moment. But one would never be able to overcome the other, and, in time, their struggle would make for the birthing place of most mortals. Along the flood plains of the great rivers, agriculture would arise, and across the islands in the oceans, boat people would set up their homes and eat of tropical fruits and fish. And of course, rain. Rain, born from the struggle of the two elemental gods, and a third, Modaara, with his winds, to push it hither and there, would sustain the life and green needed for mortals to leave the immediate shores of life-giving, though sometimes violent, flood plains and venture further and further out.

    Mogan sighed. It had been years since his temper broke and the mountain had grown cold, at least at its top. He sniffed and looked here and there and grumbled, as he did when he was not shouting, and waddled his way down his new mountain. The Green had approached, sprawling across the now cold lava fields that nourished the land with many minerals and had been soaked by rains. He grunted again and raised a hammer to smite yet another blasted creation to come cover his earth... But...

    The Forge God pulled a piece of clay from the earth and formed it, breathed on it with his hot breath, and made a pipe. He plucked a handful of green leaves, squeezed it, and the low heat dried it over time. Turned it brown and sweet. The brown leaves were stuffed into his pipe and Mogan puffed on the plant.

    "Mayhaps..." He drew on the tip of the pipe, the ember in the little forge in his hand grew cherry red, "It ain't s' bad after all," Mogan placed his hammer, Bal, on his hip and stood, contemplating creation. Contemplating the sweet, grassy weeds in his pipe.

    -

    There was a sucking noise as reality contorted itself. Z'ozal felt something near. Then it was gone. Behind It was a gate, near the edge of comprehension, bordering on reality and then something else. A crunching noise and one of the screaming, waling faces, all agony and torment was devoured in one snake-like bite by another face, which laughed and screamed in mania and made hideous faces. An eye pushed through one fleshy appendage and Z'ozal looked at the gate with it, focusing closely as It could. With the eye, It could smell the scent of new creation, of a powerful and strange new creation. Where the mass of fleshy, screaming tentacles was, now there was the albino, starving figure with its long fingers and watery, fidgeting eyes.

    Twitching, shivering, Z'ozal pushed open, or rather pushed past, the gate and into a realm that was like a moving abstract painting. It was wild and shifting and heaving and still all at once. Somehow... It fit right in, perfectly, like a puzzle piece.

    "Who," A tongue appeared from a great, open maw with infinite teeth and licked the edges of the new reality, "Appeases me?" In this realm, Z'ozal's voice seemed... Almost normal. Almost plain. The sound of retching, vomiting, the incoherent symphony of screams and crying, whispered and shouted words... They had always formed just one voice, Its voice, but here they seemed subdued.

    Something played at the edges of understanding It. Very nearly had this great and awful new creation sated the insatiable, but... "Now," Several more tongues protruded the mouth and licked at the gate of reality and beyond, tasted the energies between worlds and realms, "I want it," The realm shifted underneath the new, horrific hunger of Z'ozal as Its very being seemed to siphon and feed off its surroundings. Just a yoke cannot be put back into a cracked egg, so Z'ozal would not be shoved back into a faux womb to be incubated for eternity and then beyond. But It would abide here, for a time, until It had gone through every ounce of madness there was in this realm, the Beyond, and the parasite of a being had had a taste of all there was here... Then It would gorge itself on reality. No, no, reality was the gnat in Its ear, but what of those that made reality? The Maw licked hungrily at the gate, only Its own raw hedonism restraining It. Z'ozal could taste the residual creation-magick, fleeting as it was, and there was no taste more delightful, more tantalizing.

    It was resolved.

    Z'ozal would become the Devourer of Gods.
     
  17. Kelmourne

    Kelmourne The Savage Hippy

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    Modaara and his Changelings sang to each other over vast distances, their songs carried by the wind. Over time, Modaara came to associate each of them with a name. Aenin, Eiinamar, Aiimanin, Ouasoss, Yudaaril, Waikeru, and Vainold had each chosen a different portion of the Earth to explore.

    Ouasoss and Waikeru approached the expanding oceans. In their waters they could see large forms moving with passion, keeping the currents flowing. Ouasoss stood on a hill and sang a song of conflict to these beasts, as Waikeru approached the water carefully. Near the coastline she found smaller pools of water, formed of mighty waves that had crashed beyond the shore. She took a drink of the water. Her skin began to change from it's wrinkled form. It became smooth and soft.

    Aiimanin and Eiinamar approached the mighty volcanoes. Aiimanin could see hideous beasts of magma and stone coming forth from one of them, apparently rejected by their creator, and she followed them from a distance. Eiinamar stayed at the volcanoes to observe the interaction between magma and water, and the formation of the great steam plumes. Eventually, he saw a great form, perhaps a being as great as Modaara himself, walking down the slopes. Eiinamar was there when the first pipe was formed, and used, and was greatly intrigued. He stood up from his cover and sang a warm song of peace, and of creation, to the godlike being.

    Yudaaril and Aenin spotted an expanding field of tall brown forms with green foliage sprouting from them. They approached the greenery, and marveled at the sounds the wind made rushing through the leaves. Aenin began to sing a song of birth and joy, her voice shaking the leaves as she went. Yudaaril's curiosity took him up the side of one of the tall brown columns, which he came to know as trees. Higher and higher he climbed. In his excitement, he put too much faith in too small a branch, and it snapped, sending him hurtling down towards the ground. He lay there unconscious, for an undetermined amount of time. When he woke he saw the branch that had failed him on the ground, and he marveled at how it's shape resembled that of Inyirin, the void flute of Modaara. He decided to take it into his possession, and he headed to Yar to show Modaara his finding in person.

    Wandering on his own, Vainold came upon perhaps the most startling of events. A small pale figure, sickly in it's visage, stood upon a hill, and the ground beneath it oozed with a sick form of life. Soon afterwards, a great gate appeared upon the spot where it stood, with smaller gates surrounding it in a ring. As the pale and sickly figure entered into a gate, Vainold thought it safe to approach, and investigate. When he reached the oozing ground, he stopped. It looked unnatural, like it should not exist. But it did, so it must be understood, as was his purpose. He reached down, picked up a small scrap of the fleshy material, and held it close to his nose. It smelled like... Everything. Everything smelled like blood. His vision turned red with thirst. Birthed of sand and blood-stained cloth, Vainold could recognize the scent. Why had he been cursed to consume sand? That dry horrible substance. He no longer craved it, but only blood. He sprinted towards Yar. When he got close, and the winds were blowing towards it, he began to sing a desperate song too Modaara. He wanted, no, needed, more blood. To his knowledge Modaara was the only creature with blood, and so would be able to satisfy his thirst. In his desperate song, he told of the gates, and the sickly visage that stood on the hill, and of the blight that had changed him. These events brought great sorrow to Modaara. In his eyes, it was not his child that stood before him, but some twisted form that was formerly his child. Modaara flew into a great rage, banished Vainold from Yar forever, and revoked his blessings. Letting forth a mighty song of rage, Vainold was thrown far away from Yar, and subsequently buried in a tomb of stone and dirt. Hopefully, time would forget his failed child.

    Modaara was however intrigued by the gates that Vainold had reported, and the magus that had seemed to create them. What being was this, of seemingly immense power? Modaara yearned to know, to parlay with such a creature, and to perhaps form a friendship. And so, Modaara played a song of peace and of connection, and through the magic of his void flute Inyirin, the song flowed into the gate that the magus had entered, Modaara not knowing fully what lay beyond it, hoping to reach the ears of the wanderer.
     
  18. wanderingmagus

    wanderingmagus King Anakin's Royal Advisor, Constantly Around :D

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    As the Song of Meetings played, the strands of Magic hummed with it, resonating throughout the World-Between-Worlds that was the Crossroads, along the infinite Weird-Ways twisting and winding through the space and time of other planes, until it entered into the endless halls of the Eternal Library where the Wanderer sat and read. Lifting her head, she listened intently to the music, and the number of books on the bookshelves grew by leaps and bounds, almost doubling in size as new Shapes formed in the Weave of Magic, Shapes of music and sound, which as yet had no name. Standing, she cast the Cloak of Travels about her, and the field of stars shimmered, and she passed through the Weave, moving unerringly along the Weird-Ways and following the music to its source.

    The night sky upon the horizon of Yar seemed not so distant to Modaara for a brief moment, and in that moment a portion of it formed into the shape of a cloak, and from beneath its hood peered a pale visage, pale and fair, almost delicate like the highest lilting pitches of his flute, yet the three lightly-glowing eyes which met his were as deep as the contrabass and infrasonic tones of the horns of Yar. Her body was like his, though slightly more slender, and her left arm held a staff of many woods, and her right held a tome filled with symbols. As his eyes fell upon the pages of the book, he realized that they seemed almost naturally to describe the music he played, yet the symbols were nameless, and even as he watched, they seemed to blur, for they had not yet taken their final shape - that, he realized, would be up to him to Shape, as he had Shaped this world, its mountains, and its music.

    "Greetings to you, Modaara, Lord of Change, Wind-bringer, Musician of the Gods," bowed the cloaked figure. "I am called Wanderer, and I am a Keeper of Records. I hear your music, and I am come to you. Wherefore have you called me?"

    Her voice was a soft melody of sounds, a song of shifting tones and syllables which took on their own meaning even as they left her mouth, sounds which described ideas and thoughts, some of which had never before existed save in one's own mind. Language, it was, Words which burned with power like the fires of the Sun which Inyirin had shaped in the dawn of time, the Language of Gods. It had begun long ago, when Emptuma the Firstborn conversed with the All-Maker, but now it echoed through Creation as the divine music of Yar echoed through its endless caverns.
     
  19. Kelmourne

    Kelmourne The Savage Hippy

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    Modaara was fascinated by this new sound. Both Modaara and his Changelings had learned the art of singing, and this was similar in many regards. But the sounds carried a message on them, much more clearly and directly than that of musical vocalizations.

    "Well met, Wanderer. I am Modaara, Lord of Yar. I have heard tales of majestic gates crafted by your magic. I much desire to know where they lead to. Presumably, other realms. Does the Wanderer reside in one of these realms and if so, what is it like? Perhaps, if such a task is possible, a gate could be constructed atop the peak of Yar."

    At this point, Modaara's gaze fell upon the tome in the Wanderer's right hand. The symbols on the page moved fluidly, and they seemed to move with the timbre of the wind, and the voices of the two Gods. Out of curiosity, Modaara took hold of Inyirin and played the deep droning note that cooled the fires of Emptuma's rage into the mass of the Earth. The symbols on the tome organized themselves into a pattern. Gradually, Modaara shifted the pitch higher and higher through the spectrum of sounds Inyirin could produce, all the way to the highest treble that is audible to the ears of Gods. The symbols on the tome shifted through a number of distinct shapes, never repeating. Fascinated by this new symbology, Modaara decided to test it's limits. He let forth a discordant tone from Inyirin, with each of it's 3333 voices sounding a different pitch, or note as Modaara would now call them. The symbology grew dense and incredibly complex, but was able to convey all 3333 voices of Inyirin with perfect fidelity. As such, there came to be 3333 unique notes in Modaara's new notation.

    "This tome now contains that which is necessary to convey my music through symbology alone. Within it lies the power to teach music to others, so that they may create beautiful melodies to enrich this world."

    ~

    As the meeting took place atop Yar, the Changeling Yudaaril approached on foot, with the branch he had found in Thrulf's forest in hand. He climbed the winding staircase of Yar, listening to the distant echoes of the conversation above, as well as the music the wind was playing by passing through the delicately carved caves of Yar. A symbology of music? This idea was quite intriguing, and Yudaaril began to dream of how the wind's songs could be transcribed.
     
  20. wanderingmagus

    wanderingmagus King Anakin's Royal Advisor, Constantly Around :D

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    The Wanderer smiled with simple joy at another god's appreciation of the Signs and Symbols making their way into the Records of Eternity. Holding out the tome, the symbols floated into the air before them, large and bright enough that even the changeling Yudaaril, far below at the base of Yar, could see them as clearly as if they were set directly before him. Each shape had now solidified as Modara named them and gave them his blessing.

    "They are yours, Modaara, Lord of Yar, if you wish to have them, these Notes, a gift to you and to all those who one day will come to learn Music at your feet and create Songs and Hymns in your name. May they bring music to every corner of Creation, so that all the world might hear and appreciate it.

    "And I did indeed create the Gates, and with them the infinite Realms, and the Weird-Ways which connect them together in the Weave of Magic. And as you have guessed correctly, I indeed dwell within one such Realm, a library I have created for myself, to fill with the knowledge of all that has been, all that is, and all that shall be as Creation is further Shaped by our wills and that of those to come in the infinite visions of Osseon. I would be happy to create a Gate for you upon the summit of Yar, in whatever shape or form you so choose, and more - I offer freely to you any of the infinite Realms, to take and Shape as your own, and use as you see fit, whether as a Sanctuary from the outside world, or a place of learning, or a temple to music and change, or whatever purpose you might devise for it. To this I will also offer Magic, any part of it you might choose or desire, whether the magic of musical instruments such as you have created, or the magic of music itself, or any other aspect as fits your vision."

    She spread open her arms, gesturing at the Outer Gates, the roads she had Shaped, the invisible strands of the Weave of Magic.

    "My sole desire and purpose is to record all that takes place, to share the knowledge I gain in my wandering, to bring Magic to every part of Creation and forge paths where there are none. Like you, I am driven by a need to Shape this Creation, to bring further complexity to the world, to what end I know not. But in the infinite visions of Osseon, I have seen something which gives me hope in the spreading both of my knowledge and your music - peculiar creations I will call Mortals, Modaara. These beings, in the great majority of those visions, will come to take a greater and greater role in the Shaping of the world and all that is to come. Already, our brother Mogan has forged mortals in his own image called Dwarves, though they yet sleep deep in the heart of his mountain-forges, awaiting some moment still unknown to me, before they awaken. Perchance you, also, may have a hand in the birth of mortals, Modaara, Lord of Yar. A part in the eternal song, as it were."

    She paused, then opened the Records of Eternity, flipping through the pages and pausing to quickly skim over a few lines which Modaara was coming to recognize as written representations of words in the Language of Gods they were creating as they spoke.

    "Be that as it may, I would suggest first speaking and working with our brother Thrulf on the subject of creating what I will call Animals, and perhaps Spirits."

    The strange words took shape and meaning in the god's mind, though they still were but an idea, yet to take full Shape in the real world of Creation. Creatures that swam in the oceans, or flew through his air, or ran and crawled and skittered and squirmed about the vast lands all around Yar, infinite potential for joining his Changelings in the glorious chorus of life and the creation of music.
     
    Last edited: Jun 27, 2018