The sun was way too hot for Dreamthief, who was sitting in a rock up on the cliff way too close to the gigantic high noon sun. His fair skin was starting to peel from sunburn down to his waist-- all he had on remaining were his pants and boots. Everything else just had to go. He tries to think straight for a moment.
The Prometheus gig isn't working anymore either. Same with the pressure cooker... even the damned birds forgot about me. I need to test something... Fireflies Journey.
Choosing a fairly useless Gift, a thousand small lights meander through the air out of his palm. Okay, now again. Nothing... Looks like I got one shot left with each. What the hell is happening? Okay I need to plan... get out of here alive. I've only got one shot left at getting out of this world and finding the right one.
Dreamthief. The one thing he wanted more than anything in the worlds was to find a perfect place. Everything back on Earth, the fighting with Kayla, growing up taking beatings from his grandfather... the accident... his grandfather dead but it seemed like such an accident... troubled... orphan... then streets... then underground where he found the old man... the promise... the responsibility... then crowned the Dreamthief... failing... losing Kayla... finally the one word to--
"ONE SHOT!! IS THAT ALL YOU GIVE ME, OLD MAN?! THAT'S WHAT IT COMES DOWN TO?! YOU TOLD ME I'D FIND IT!", Dreamthief begins to cry. Beautiful like a music box. A world of peace. Beautiful like Kayla. I'd rule there and we'd be back together. Or maybe I could be a kid again, when mom and dad would... No.
Today I'm here. Tomorrow I'm in tomorrow. Right now I'm still the Dreamthief in my book.
He reviews what's left in his bag of tricks as he jumps into the maze below. Perhaps for the last time ever to defy gravity... Damn I don't really have too much left-- I gave most of them to all the troops back-- when Dreamthief is hit with an idea. He recieves as well as he gives... in return for blasting powers into the Paxians, he took something in return. A part of their soul.
"Follow me."
Somewhere, surely, were a dozen soldiers, probably war heroes by now, who have been imbued each for unknown reasons (except to us) with untold powers. Somewhere, surely, they drop what they're doing and wander towards where they feel, in their hearts, a part of them saying Follow me. It is simply unresistable.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Three)
Father Aequitas sits in a hall... a hall of shadow and crimson draperies engulfing cobwebbed statues of angels and saints, crucifixes and other such things, this small forgotten hall in a city of beauty.
Father Aequitas sits in a hall behind the congregation as he hears in the background an echoing of chains and handywork as the citylike Cathedral is fortified. The clicking of boots from behind draws his attention. A bushy eyebrow raises high on a bald head. "Oh, you're the soul who served as the messenger of salvation this morning."
"Roderick, sir," as the roguish officer gave a half-hearted salute. Immediately the priest stormed onto his own feet, drawn at full amazing height. Roderick could immediately see this man had been military and a high ranking soldier at that-- it bled at this moment from his very eyes, piercing eyes which demanded respect.
"Officer Roderick Grandamme reporting for duty, sir"
"That's better, my child", the kindly old man meekly returning to his seat. All this transition baffled and terrified poor Roderick, and his strange companion even more. The man was definitely one of the great battle-priests in the days of the Gaunt Force. Never did a world create finer soldiers, and never did any soldiers deal greater justice. But he looked so tired now... Roderick's pity was aroused, distracted mainly by the small creature peeking from behind his waist.
Aequitas closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose, slumped in the wooden chair again: "So weary, Grandamme... have the slave there fetch me something, would you?"
Slave stood his ground, staring resiliently into the battle-priest's eyes.
"What is the meaning of this, does he only take orders from you?" bewildered by the odd behavior of a fool.
"He takes orders from whomever he pleases, sir. And he is no slave. He is a warrior." Warrior's grin was demonic, a strange play on a fool's innocent face, but then again, Warrior is a better name than Slave. He hoped that one stuck for a while.
"It's ridiculous, that's what it is." Damn. So much for nothing. The onslought of fatigue hit Aequitas again. "If... you are correct... If the war is headed West. This holy city will not stand."
Roderick looked around the old hall of the cathedral city, an environment quite alien to him "Sir, if you will. You seem to not have so much faith in this God of yours, that is--" He knew his mistake seeing Aequitas rise. Luckily a few other priests carrying a large chest entered the room and perhaps saved his life.
"Bullshit!", the very word shocking Roderick to hear. "I merely mean to say we won't just stand, we'll make sure the war ends in this very city. The benefactors can come to bring gifts of destruction, but I have no need to be given something I already have in abundance."
The chest opened and what Roderick and his companion saw filled them with awe.
Father Aequitas sits in a hall behind the congregation as he hears in the background an echoing of chains and handywork as the citylike Cathedral is fortified. The clicking of boots from behind draws his attention. A bushy eyebrow raises high on a bald head. "Oh, you're the soul who served as the messenger of salvation this morning."
"Roderick, sir," as the roguish officer gave a half-hearted salute. Immediately the priest stormed onto his own feet, drawn at full amazing height. Roderick could immediately see this man had been military and a high ranking soldier at that-- it bled at this moment from his very eyes, piercing eyes which demanded respect.
"Officer Roderick Grandamme reporting for duty, sir"
"That's better, my child", the kindly old man meekly returning to his seat. All this transition baffled and terrified poor Roderick, and his strange companion even more. The man was definitely one of the great battle-priests in the days of the Gaunt Force. Never did a world create finer soldiers, and never did any soldiers deal greater justice. But he looked so tired now... Roderick's pity was aroused, distracted mainly by the small creature peeking from behind his waist.
Aequitas closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose, slumped in the wooden chair again: "So weary, Grandamme... have the slave there fetch me something, would you?"
Slave stood his ground, staring resiliently into the battle-priest's eyes.
"What is the meaning of this, does he only take orders from you?" bewildered by the odd behavior of a fool.
"He takes orders from whomever he pleases, sir. And he is no slave. He is a warrior." Warrior's grin was demonic, a strange play on a fool's innocent face, but then again, Warrior is a better name than Slave. He hoped that one stuck for a while.
"It's ridiculous, that's what it is." Damn. So much for nothing. The onslought of fatigue hit Aequitas again. "If... you are correct... If the war is headed West. This holy city will not stand."
Roderick looked around the old hall of the cathedral city, an environment quite alien to him "Sir, if you will. You seem to not have so much faith in this God of yours, that is--" He knew his mistake seeing Aequitas rise. Luckily a few other priests carrying a large chest entered the room and perhaps saved his life.
"Bullshit!", the very word shocking Roderick to hear. "I merely mean to say we won't just stand, we'll make sure the war ends in this very city. The benefactors can come to bring gifts of destruction, but I have no need to be given something I already have in abundance."
The chest opened and what Roderick and his companion saw filled them with awe.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part Two)
Dreamthief simply can't get his act together after the incident at the battlefield. Whatever happened took a toll on him, like he's been drained. Usually a few of his gifts would keep him on top of his game, but even they aren't enough this time. Damn, he thinks. All the power in the universe and it still feels like I have a hangover.
The benefactors seem to be changing route. The Paxians, he observes from a cliff, and the otherworldly beings alike are migrating west. He has been spotting a few outer-worlders mixed into the Paxian crowd now, and he can't help but marvel how receptive the people have been to accept they're not the center of the universe. They just don't realize how off center they were yet must be.
Where the hell are those damned birds? He sits on a lofty peek as high noon sets in, waiting for his entourage of messengers. For the first time in a long time the heat of the sun makes his thick costume iritate his skin and make him sweat. This does nothing to ease his already poisonous mood. Those birds should be here by now and... is that a headache?
Over the ledge he can practically smell the shady air. Yes, it had a smell, of copper or metal, of blood. Not to be metaphorical that there was a war far below, just simply that cold draft on stone makes an irony scent, which is far better than the scorching heat up here, which smells something awful. Like... humus that's been sitting out too long.
The first freaking bird I see... I swear to--
Women made of yellow-hued glass lift up delicately from the desert sands, looking like heat vapor in the sun. They surround him, a dozen perhaps, and link hands and begin to dance seductively for him. A scout group of benefactors. The most obvious choice against the porcelain Maidens would be his little pressure cooker trick (truth be told not all his gifts have proper names, some are just too much fun)...
At the snap of his fingers, the Maidens, who have been gradually dancing faster and faster, closing in... continue their dance. No no no, don't back out on me now! Another power proves useless and in desperation, before he is crushed by the whirling glass dancers, throws a quick jab straight into the fray, remembering the Tidings of Prometheus. A flaming arc melts down the circle like a blowtorch on ice.
While catching his breath (another first-timer for him) a solitary bird, a quail, begins to perch on his shoulder. Without removing his gaze from the horizon line straight ahead, he reaches across and squeezes the thing to death with one swift movement.
The benefactors seem to be changing route. The Paxians, he observes from a cliff, and the otherworldly beings alike are migrating west. He has been spotting a few outer-worlders mixed into the Paxian crowd now, and he can't help but marvel how receptive the people have been to accept they're not the center of the universe. They just don't realize how off center they were yet must be.
Where the hell are those damned birds? He sits on a lofty peek as high noon sets in, waiting for his entourage of messengers. For the first time in a long time the heat of the sun makes his thick costume iritate his skin and make him sweat. This does nothing to ease his already poisonous mood. Those birds should be here by now and... is that a headache?
Over the ledge he can practically smell the shady air. Yes, it had a smell, of copper or metal, of blood. Not to be metaphorical that there was a war far below, just simply that cold draft on stone makes an irony scent, which is far better than the scorching heat up here, which smells something awful. Like... humus that's been sitting out too long.
The first freaking bird I see... I swear to--
Women made of yellow-hued glass lift up delicately from the desert sands, looking like heat vapor in the sun. They surround him, a dozen perhaps, and link hands and begin to dance seductively for him. A scout group of benefactors. The most obvious choice against the porcelain Maidens would be his little pressure cooker trick (truth be told not all his gifts have proper names, some are just too much fun)...
At the snap of his fingers, the Maidens, who have been gradually dancing faster and faster, closing in... continue their dance. No no no, don't back out on me now! Another power proves useless and in desperation, before he is crushed by the whirling glass dancers, throws a quick jab straight into the fray, remembering the Tidings of Prometheus. A flaming arc melts down the circle like a blowtorch on ice.
While catching his breath (another first-timer for him) a solitary bird, a quail, begins to perch on his shoulder. Without removing his gaze from the horizon line straight ahead, he reaches across and squeezes the thing to death with one swift movement.
Monday, October 26, 2009
OVERTURE to Nocturn, Second Movement (Part One)
Situated by the desert mazes of Paxia is a city which is untouched, to this very day, by the often warring peoples of the nomadic tribes and feudal kingdoms.
The church is of a soft warm glow that seems to fill the stone and the stale air with a softness, an almost liquid quality, of which memories nest inside of, augmented further by the haze of incense. The glow of a small chapel, not common to be found in the great cathedrals of the capitol, and perhaps this is why the people chose this place as the Holy Seat. Father Aequitas lurches foward in his pulpit, the slackened body seeming to contrast his piercing eyes and gaunt face.
"You have asked, people, why we can have beings of other worlds descend upon us and live in harmony with them, how they may exist, if we and only we have been created in God's image. Such things look nothing human, and so how is it that they worship the same God of all Creation? Because it is not through image of the flesh, but through image of the--"
Not many things can cause a stir in the Holy Cathedral, and certainly during a sermon of Aequitas, but a Paxian officer with a large fool on a leash charging towards the front altar certainly may. Thousands in the pews whisper amongst themselves as they wonder as to what the nature of this visit is.
Roderick, suddenly self-conscious when he realizes the slight inconvenience he seems to be causing, at least politely bows before the altar before he leaps over the railing and charges up the pulpit steps. A few words are exchanged, and under the officer's suggestion, and to the people's bewilderment, all entrances to the cathedral are securely locked by deacons as another priest makes for the shrine, to acquire something the good Father will be in need of.
For this place is to soon be the site of a great war.
The church is of a soft warm glow that seems to fill the stone and the stale air with a softness, an almost liquid quality, of which memories nest inside of, augmented further by the haze of incense. The glow of a small chapel, not common to be found in the great cathedrals of the capitol, and perhaps this is why the people chose this place as the Holy Seat. Father Aequitas lurches foward in his pulpit, the slackened body seeming to contrast his piercing eyes and gaunt face.
"You have asked, people, why we can have beings of other worlds descend upon us and live in harmony with them, how they may exist, if we and only we have been created in God's image. Such things look nothing human, and so how is it that they worship the same God of all Creation? Because it is not through image of the flesh, but through image of the--"
Not many things can cause a stir in the Holy Cathedral, and certainly during a sermon of Aequitas, but a Paxian officer with a large fool on a leash charging towards the front altar certainly may. Thousands in the pews whisper amongst themselves as they wonder as to what the nature of this visit is.
Roderick, suddenly self-conscious when he realizes the slight inconvenience he seems to be causing, at least politely bows before the altar before he leaps over the railing and charges up the pulpit steps. A few words are exchanged, and under the officer's suggestion, and to the people's bewilderment, all entrances to the cathedral are securely locked by deacons as another priest makes for the shrine, to acquire something the good Father will be in need of.
For this place is to soon be the site of a great war.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
OVERTURE to Nocturn (Intermission)
(I recommend playing the attatched song to help deliver the picture more clearly: "Sailing" by Carter Burwell. Turn off your lights, and try to remember the most beautiful dreams you have had, ones not even a Dreamthief would dare touch)
Anna can feel it, and in her nightgown the young girl's small feet crunch through the snow, the snow which isn't so harsh on her feet as snow should be, as she leaves small footprints in her wake. The stars look just as cold... a light cold, a kind cold.
She looks about, finding herself in a small enclosed garden, surrounded by ruins of white walls and a solitary lamp light which isn't shining at all. Dead trees, soothing statues of angels reaching ahead, with pious lips and blank eyes. Snow capping everything.... a stone bench where she sits and waits.
She looks behind her to a frozen pond, and beneath the ice she sees something move, sublime and resplendent, for just a moment... something far larger than the garden, as though the pond was just a small window to something far, far greater beneath. She tears herself away from the small pane ice, as the beautiful scales in the great abyss almost break the illusion. And yet... Anna sees herself in the surface of the frozen pond, older and tragically beautiful. A sorrowful smile.
"Child", a meek voice askes from behind. An old friend she has never known. A perfect being, if there could be one, in the perfection of his face. He humbly holds a top hat in two hands to his chest and a soft purple velvet jacket elegantly clothes him, coat tails softly brushing on high boots of white. Upon closer inspection, he seems a bit too perfect, and then one may see that his skin appears more like material than skin, a pale white knit of fine silk, and his eyes dark and ponderous like obsidian marbles. As if he isn't real.
"Don't fret about the pond, Anna. There are better things, kinder things", and a grin spreads ear to ear, showing an unnatural nature to his face, which is even more comforting. Drawing her in, and making her smile,"Don't I know you?"
"All children do. Now come with me, Anna.", he walks away, facing her, his roguish grin haunting, long blonde locks like a wig spilling on his shoulders. "I have wondrous things to show you", and he turns through a small alley she didn't notice before, which leads into the midnight.
Midnight blue...
Anna can feel it, and in her nightgown the young girl's small feet crunch through the snow, the snow which isn't so harsh on her feet as snow should be, as she leaves small footprints in her wake. The stars look just as cold... a light cold, a kind cold.
She looks about, finding herself in a small enclosed garden, surrounded by ruins of white walls and a solitary lamp light which isn't shining at all. Dead trees, soothing statues of angels reaching ahead, with pious lips and blank eyes. Snow capping everything.... a stone bench where she sits and waits.
She looks behind her to a frozen pond, and beneath the ice she sees something move, sublime and resplendent, for just a moment... something far larger than the garden, as though the pond was just a small window to something far, far greater beneath. She tears herself away from the small pane ice, as the beautiful scales in the great abyss almost break the illusion. And yet... Anna sees herself in the surface of the frozen pond, older and tragically beautiful. A sorrowful smile.
"Child", a meek voice askes from behind. An old friend she has never known. A perfect being, if there could be one, in the perfection of his face. He humbly holds a top hat in two hands to his chest and a soft purple velvet jacket elegantly clothes him, coat tails softly brushing on high boots of white. Upon closer inspection, he seems a bit too perfect, and then one may see that his skin appears more like material than skin, a pale white knit of fine silk, and his eyes dark and ponderous like obsidian marbles. As if he isn't real.
"Don't fret about the pond, Anna. There are better things, kinder things", and a grin spreads ear to ear, showing an unnatural nature to his face, which is even more comforting. Drawing her in, and making her smile,"Don't I know you?"
"All children do. Now come with me, Anna.", he walks away, facing her, his roguish grin haunting, long blonde locks like a wig spilling on his shoulders. "I have wondrous things to show you", and he turns through a small alley she didn't notice before, which leads into the midnight.
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