Ceramic DM -- Fall '06 ** yangnome wins! **
- Thread starter Rodrigo Istalindir
- Start date
Aris Dragonborn
First Post
Well, I just discovered I had a major brainfart.
What was that? you ask.
Simple. I wrote my story based on the pictures for the Wild Gazebo vs. Taladas match, rather than for the pictures for my match against Halivar. :headdesk:
Oops.
Considering the trouble I had writing this story (I finally finished at 6:55 this morning), and the fact that I have to work later today, I'm afraid there is no way for me to possibly write a story using the correct pictures.
Sorry folks. Looks like I have to concede this one to Halivar.
EDIT: I blame Piture #1. It haunts my dreams.
What was that? you ask.
Simple. I wrote my story based on the pictures for the Wild Gazebo vs. Taladas match, rather than for the pictures for my match against Halivar. :headdesk:
Oops.
Considering the trouble I had writing this story (I finally finished at 6:55 this morning), and the fact that I have to work later today, I'm afraid there is no way for me to possibly write a story using the correct pictures.
Sorry folks. Looks like I have to concede this one to Halivar.
EDIT: I blame Piture #1. It haunts my dreams.
The First Baby Step Towards the World’s End
Part I
In which there is a plumbing problem.
(picture of man near pipes)
I am what they call an arch-angel and with fiery sword in hand, I traverse creation, setting it right.
From the Gates of Heaven, everything below looked perfect. It was almost like you could look below and see His plan and every little piece, no matter how mundane seemed like a divine cog, turning precisely as it should. But then my flight took lower, not earth-side but a place just behind, just sideways, just alongside earth-side, the back-stage, where great pipes containing dreams, love, spite, faith, hope and all manner of humanity’s glories and failings were contained and distributed.
If I wanted to sound official, glorious, and holy I could tell you that the flow of growth and responsibility had become problematic, causing unforeseen complications in the earthly realms. But that would be hubris, wouldn’t it? The truth is, some pipes were backed up; it was a plumbing problem, no matter how epic the plumbing.
He was a wingless cherub in working gear, not looking up at me so he wouldn’t be blinded by Heaven’s Gates, always directly above me, right between my snow white wings. He stood over the tremendous pipes with his gear strapped to his limbs.
Limbs, such an affectation. I wonder why this one enjoyed the look of an earth handyman and not a jellyfish or a floating ball of light?
“Lines are gummed up good,” he said, apparently enjoying the speech patterns of his kind as well. Sometimes the work these blue collar angels took on rubbed them in strange directions, humanity took root in them. His form and speech reminded me all the more that this was no epic struggle between good and evil nor a conflict among the fundamental forces of humanity but a clogged pipe.
I tried to imagine what the cherub/handyman saw looking up at me, standing on this broken pipe that ran from one side of reality to another, from the moment He created light to the last sputter of a dead sun with me, a floating angel, wings of white, flaming sword in hand, presence still exuberant from having bathed in His Glory during the first seven days.
“Open the pipe, cherub.”
He shook his head. “This is raw adulthood, running right into creation’s veins. This here is bad id-“
“Open the pipe.”
He sighed and turned valves so the pressure on the nearest hatch could be opened.
“Close it after me; I want nothing following.”
“But how will you get out?”
Taking one last look at the Gates, I said, “I’m sure there is a plan for my exit if my exit is to be.”
He snorted and I descended feet first into the pipes, still damp with the elemental forces within that had stopped flowing.
The cherub clamped shut the hatch and thought I couldn’t hear him as he muttered, “Stupid snob angel…white winged…flaming sword…fop.”
The smell of adulthood was overpowering. Duty, responsibility, focus, and choice sobered me to my purpose, to correct the wrong.
And there was only ever one thing wrong with creation; I wondered how the wrong would manifest this time while flying towards the clog in the pipes.
Part II
In which there is a two employees from different corporations talk shop.
(picture of adults playing)
I am an earth-side angel, nudging the mundane world towards holiness, recording and reporting.
On earth-side, you can’t exactly see Heaven. You can feel its pull, like magnetic north but you can’t see the gates. That can be unnerving but I have been serving earth-side, seeing that the Pact is kept and watching over those who need an angel’s breath here and there.
The accounting firm of Carson and Webster had a meeting on the first Monday of the month to discuss projects, talk hard numbers and look upon the various computer aided slide show presentations with bar graphs and the occasional inspirational quote. The angel watching them had noted that none of the quotes had ever come from a holy book of any kind. Dilbert doesn’t count, he reckoned.
Perhaps that lack of holy guidance had some hand in the events he was watching unfold. They had decided in their meeting that their jobs sucked and it was time to cut the meeting short, go outside and play. He was floating just above the ground with his record keeping apparatus, a simple note pad and feather pen, watching the Vice President of Human Resources and the newest partner holding a blanket between them, flinging a dolly in the air.
“If we fling it high enough, the dolly will go to heaven!” the V.P. exclaimed, giggling shamelessly.
“Hardly,” slithered a reply from behind the angel’s shoulder. The humans couldn’t hear it but I could. One needs a special sort of hearing to directly hear the sarcastic wit of the fallen angels.
“Bub, seems like I haven’t seen you since the Fall. How long has it been?” I’d show him that devils and demons aren’t the only ones with sarcasm and wit.
“Please, you watched me deficate on the boardroom table when the firm helped that man declare bankruptcy to avoid paying child support to his ex-wife.” he responded, taking a kerchief to his long blank horns.
A curt sniff was my only reply.
“Good times,” he said back, smiling a grin that fully showed his poor dental hygene since his descent. A look of disdain came over his face. “What is this rubbish about?” he said, pointing to the cavorting accountants, playing, skipping, crying and such all over the playground that was just a block away from their office building.
“It looks like a group of people basking in God’s glory and enjoying his creation to the fullest.”
The building custodian sprinted between them, not knowing the forces he was walking among and the company president followed him in fast pursuit, tie flapping in the wind. “No fair, no tag-backs, that was established as the game began. No tag-backs!”
Bub smiled, showing his the contests of his foul mouth again. “Please. You earth-side angels are even more pathetic when you attempt to get a rise out of my kind. Exiled from his holy presence and so you hope to gain a holy nod back into the gates by finding one of us breaking the Pact.
“This doesn’t look like anything holy to me,” Bub waived his hand at the accountants, administrators and staff, “This is downright disturbing and you of all beings should understand what it takes to accomplish that.”
Bub continued, “Something’s wrong. The machinery is broken. All of those things you were filing under mysterious ways were actually mistakes, errors, profound miscalculations, problems with the divine plan.”
I was holding the pen too hard and the feather, one from my own wings, snapped.
“Your blasphemy is pathetic,” I whispered.
Bub nodded, “Only as pathetic as your faith. Call it upstairs, earth-sider, see what they will report back down the chain.”
“That isn’t the way it works.”
Bub turned, looking over a few of the ladies in data entry who were making a cat’s cradle between them. “I know. Funny thing, I had lunch with the Morningstar just last week, basked in his presence, close your eyes and you could forget that it isn’t the Creator, himself.”
“I am here to give you a last chance to come to us. You are earth-side anyway, close enough. It is one small step towards us. Put your wings on the ground, leave your pen and paper here and never file a pathetic earth-side report again.”
I managed to make a noise that meant no and when I opened my eyes, he was gone and the adults were standing in the playground, looking puzzled. Something had happened, something tremendous and this playground was but a ripple.
While the accountants filed back towards their offices, I looked up, foolishly hoping to see Heaven, feeling its pull a little less.
Part III
In which the arch-angel speaks to the Devil, also known as the Morningstar.
Of course it was the Devil standing in the pipe. Adulthood, raw and unfiltered, was flowing into a clumsily made diversion in the works, sending it downwards, towards the realm carved from the impact of 666 angels falling from Heaven.
“You have clogged the pipe,” I said to the Morningstar, feeling weak, not having seen Him…I mean seen him since his departure.
He had a hard-hat on, little white horns sticking out underneath it. His wings were glorious and fiery with raptor-like claws at the tips.
“Who else could it be, old friend? When there is a problem with the world, there is always someone to blame, such is the genius of my former boss’ plan.”
I gripped my sword tight. “He is still your boss, Morningstar, still your Creator.”
The rush of adulthood going down this break in the pipes was a whisper beside our voices. This juncture was like a cathedral ceiling, vaulted and complicated, beautiful really. It would be a grand place to put my sword to the Morningstar. This would be a fine place to cease to be.
“I am not going to kill you,” Morningstar said. “Don’t bother denying it, you sword angels are predictable. But the problem with this pipe has roots in my realm. There is liquid adulthood, making a mess of my home.”
“You will not trick me into going to Hell, creature,” I spit.
“I didn’t trick you into anything. You were sent to rectify the problem; the problem is in Hell. Now what?”
I looked into the pipe for myself to see the problem. The truth of it was the pipe was fixable but only from beneath it. Sealing it would also seal me in the Morningstar’s infernal realm.
I flew into the gaping hole and using my word, fixed the wound in the pipes. The pipe’s contents began to flow correctly and all was right with creation again.
Except Heaven’s Gates was no longer directly above me. Or perhaps it was but if so, I could no longer feel its pull, hear its song, all I could hear was the flapping of my own wings, taking me deeper into hell as adulthood rushed through the pipes above me.
Part IV
In which the flow of adulthood’s pressure is too strong before it levels out.
(the picture of the blue slide)
The lovely blue slide in the park as usually busy with children sliding down, children climbing up, children hanging off of the side.
But not today.
Today, they decided the slide was foolish, useless and trite.
Oddly, that day they went home and balanced their parent’s checkbooks, did their laundry, cleaned their rooms and made concrete plans with concrete goals. Perhaps they were just feeling more responsible and adult or perhaps they just knew that there was one less angel in the world.
Part I
In which there is a plumbing problem.
(picture of man near pipes)
I am what they call an arch-angel and with fiery sword in hand, I traverse creation, setting it right.
From the Gates of Heaven, everything below looked perfect. It was almost like you could look below and see His plan and every little piece, no matter how mundane seemed like a divine cog, turning precisely as it should. But then my flight took lower, not earth-side but a place just behind, just sideways, just alongside earth-side, the back-stage, where great pipes containing dreams, love, spite, faith, hope and all manner of humanity’s glories and failings were contained and distributed.
If I wanted to sound official, glorious, and holy I could tell you that the flow of growth and responsibility had become problematic, causing unforeseen complications in the earthly realms. But that would be hubris, wouldn’t it? The truth is, some pipes were backed up; it was a plumbing problem, no matter how epic the plumbing.
He was a wingless cherub in working gear, not looking up at me so he wouldn’t be blinded by Heaven’s Gates, always directly above me, right between my snow white wings. He stood over the tremendous pipes with his gear strapped to his limbs.
Limbs, such an affectation. I wonder why this one enjoyed the look of an earth handyman and not a jellyfish or a floating ball of light?
“Lines are gummed up good,” he said, apparently enjoying the speech patterns of his kind as well. Sometimes the work these blue collar angels took on rubbed them in strange directions, humanity took root in them. His form and speech reminded me all the more that this was no epic struggle between good and evil nor a conflict among the fundamental forces of humanity but a clogged pipe.
I tried to imagine what the cherub/handyman saw looking up at me, standing on this broken pipe that ran from one side of reality to another, from the moment He created light to the last sputter of a dead sun with me, a floating angel, wings of white, flaming sword in hand, presence still exuberant from having bathed in His Glory during the first seven days.
“Open the pipe, cherub.”
He shook his head. “This is raw adulthood, running right into creation’s veins. This here is bad id-“
“Open the pipe.”
He sighed and turned valves so the pressure on the nearest hatch could be opened.
“Close it after me; I want nothing following.”
“But how will you get out?”
Taking one last look at the Gates, I said, “I’m sure there is a plan for my exit if my exit is to be.”
He snorted and I descended feet first into the pipes, still damp with the elemental forces within that had stopped flowing.
The cherub clamped shut the hatch and thought I couldn’t hear him as he muttered, “Stupid snob angel…white winged…flaming sword…fop.”
The smell of adulthood was overpowering. Duty, responsibility, focus, and choice sobered me to my purpose, to correct the wrong.
And there was only ever one thing wrong with creation; I wondered how the wrong would manifest this time while flying towards the clog in the pipes.
Part II
In which there is a two employees from different corporations talk shop.
(picture of adults playing)
I am an earth-side angel, nudging the mundane world towards holiness, recording and reporting.
On earth-side, you can’t exactly see Heaven. You can feel its pull, like magnetic north but you can’t see the gates. That can be unnerving but I have been serving earth-side, seeing that the Pact is kept and watching over those who need an angel’s breath here and there.
The accounting firm of Carson and Webster had a meeting on the first Monday of the month to discuss projects, talk hard numbers and look upon the various computer aided slide show presentations with bar graphs and the occasional inspirational quote. The angel watching them had noted that none of the quotes had ever come from a holy book of any kind. Dilbert doesn’t count, he reckoned.
Perhaps that lack of holy guidance had some hand in the events he was watching unfold. They had decided in their meeting that their jobs sucked and it was time to cut the meeting short, go outside and play. He was floating just above the ground with his record keeping apparatus, a simple note pad and feather pen, watching the Vice President of Human Resources and the newest partner holding a blanket between them, flinging a dolly in the air.
“If we fling it high enough, the dolly will go to heaven!” the V.P. exclaimed, giggling shamelessly.
“Hardly,” slithered a reply from behind the angel’s shoulder. The humans couldn’t hear it but I could. One needs a special sort of hearing to directly hear the sarcastic wit of the fallen angels.
“Bub, seems like I haven’t seen you since the Fall. How long has it been?” I’d show him that devils and demons aren’t the only ones with sarcasm and wit.
“Please, you watched me deficate on the boardroom table when the firm helped that man declare bankruptcy to avoid paying child support to his ex-wife.” he responded, taking a kerchief to his long blank horns.
A curt sniff was my only reply.
“Good times,” he said back, smiling a grin that fully showed his poor dental hygene since his descent. A look of disdain came over his face. “What is this rubbish about?” he said, pointing to the cavorting accountants, playing, skipping, crying and such all over the playground that was just a block away from their office building.
“It looks like a group of people basking in God’s glory and enjoying his creation to the fullest.”
The building custodian sprinted between them, not knowing the forces he was walking among and the company president followed him in fast pursuit, tie flapping in the wind. “No fair, no tag-backs, that was established as the game began. No tag-backs!”
Bub smiled, showing his the contests of his foul mouth again. “Please. You earth-side angels are even more pathetic when you attempt to get a rise out of my kind. Exiled from his holy presence and so you hope to gain a holy nod back into the gates by finding one of us breaking the Pact.
“This doesn’t look like anything holy to me,” Bub waived his hand at the accountants, administrators and staff, “This is downright disturbing and you of all beings should understand what it takes to accomplish that.”
Bub continued, “Something’s wrong. The machinery is broken. All of those things you were filing under mysterious ways were actually mistakes, errors, profound miscalculations, problems with the divine plan.”
I was holding the pen too hard and the feather, one from my own wings, snapped.
“Your blasphemy is pathetic,” I whispered.
Bub nodded, “Only as pathetic as your faith. Call it upstairs, earth-sider, see what they will report back down the chain.”
“That isn’t the way it works.”
Bub turned, looking over a few of the ladies in data entry who were making a cat’s cradle between them. “I know. Funny thing, I had lunch with the Morningstar just last week, basked in his presence, close your eyes and you could forget that it isn’t the Creator, himself.”
“I am here to give you a last chance to come to us. You are earth-side anyway, close enough. It is one small step towards us. Put your wings on the ground, leave your pen and paper here and never file a pathetic earth-side report again.”
I managed to make a noise that meant no and when I opened my eyes, he was gone and the adults were standing in the playground, looking puzzled. Something had happened, something tremendous and this playground was but a ripple.
While the accountants filed back towards their offices, I looked up, foolishly hoping to see Heaven, feeling its pull a little less.
Part III
In which the arch-angel speaks to the Devil, also known as the Morningstar.
Of course it was the Devil standing in the pipe. Adulthood, raw and unfiltered, was flowing into a clumsily made diversion in the works, sending it downwards, towards the realm carved from the impact of 666 angels falling from Heaven.
“You have clogged the pipe,” I said to the Morningstar, feeling weak, not having seen Him…I mean seen him since his departure.
He had a hard-hat on, little white horns sticking out underneath it. His wings were glorious and fiery with raptor-like claws at the tips.
“Who else could it be, old friend? When there is a problem with the world, there is always someone to blame, such is the genius of my former boss’ plan.”
I gripped my sword tight. “He is still your boss, Morningstar, still your Creator.”
The rush of adulthood going down this break in the pipes was a whisper beside our voices. This juncture was like a cathedral ceiling, vaulted and complicated, beautiful really. It would be a grand place to put my sword to the Morningstar. This would be a fine place to cease to be.
“I am not going to kill you,” Morningstar said. “Don’t bother denying it, you sword angels are predictable. But the problem with this pipe has roots in my realm. There is liquid adulthood, making a mess of my home.”
“You will not trick me into going to Hell, creature,” I spit.
“I didn’t trick you into anything. You were sent to rectify the problem; the problem is in Hell. Now what?”
I looked into the pipe for myself to see the problem. The truth of it was the pipe was fixable but only from beneath it. Sealing it would also seal me in the Morningstar’s infernal realm.
I flew into the gaping hole and using my word, fixed the wound in the pipes. The pipe’s contents began to flow correctly and all was right with creation again.
Except Heaven’s Gates was no longer directly above me. Or perhaps it was but if so, I could no longer feel its pull, hear its song, all I could hear was the flapping of my own wings, taking me deeper into hell as adulthood rushed through the pipes above me.
Part IV
In which the flow of adulthood’s pressure is too strong before it levels out.
(the picture of the blue slide)
The lovely blue slide in the park as usually busy with children sliding down, children climbing up, children hanging off of the side.
But not today.
Today, they decided the slide was foolish, useless and trite.
Oddly, that day they went home and balanced their parent’s checkbooks, did their laundry, cleaned their rooms and made concrete plans with concrete goals. Perhaps they were just feeling more responsible and adult or perhaps they just knew that there was one less angel in the world.
Rodrigo Istalindir
Explorer
Aris Dragonborn said:
Ack!
That is, as far as I know, a first for Ceramic DM. We may have to name a prize after you
Oh, well. Hope you enjoyed the process, anyway. And post the story -- even if the pictures are wrong, we'd like to read it, and hopefully the judges can post some comments.
NiTessine
Explorer
The Cure
The golden disk of the sun crawled with painstaking slowness over the distant line of the horizon. Thanks to the strategic placements of window, bed, and pillow, it shone directly into Alambur’s eyes, promptly dragging him up from the blissful depths of sleep and into the waking world. As he rose to a sitting position, the temple’s resident rooster screamed in terror at the sun’s sudden and unexpected appearance and hid behind the outhouse. (Picture 1)
He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes with spindly, yellow hands, and swung himself out of the bed. After a few shaky steps, he gained his balance, and disappeared behind a dressing screen.
A few minutes later, clad in his blue and gold robes, the former Taskmage Lieutenant Alambur Saracalegus of the Resplendent Flame walked out of the room, leaning on a staff of black ebon shod with silver and carved with eldritch runes.
With his other hand, Alambur took support of the wall. All the walls in the temple were light blue, and were inlaid in a two-foot grid with the holy symbols of Hereloke, the god of physicians.
The clergy of Hereloke was a cold, detached lot, more warriors against disease and illness than actual healers. Still, Alambur preferred their care to that of those who venerated the various healing goddesses. The latter tended to be annoyingly friendly, pacifistic and dutifully considerate. A Herelokian, on the other hand, wasn’t afraid to tell you to your face that you had the mental faculties of a diseased turnip, or to give you a good beating should you deserve it. Alambur respected that.
The wizard walked through the receiving room at the temple entrance, dropping a small bag of coin on the desk without slowing down. The Herelokians had been unable to help with his ailment, but that was nothing new. Since his had been afflicted with the magical illness a year ago, among the parching sands of the Anvil of Kerak, he had aged over two decades. His research on the foul curse laid by the snake priests had been for naught, as had every cure, potion and healer he had sought out. Twice he had managed a Subei tribal ritual to steal the strength and vitality of a slain enemy, but the key part was defeating a foe in honourable single combat, which soon became impossible as the disease progressed.
After all the medicine and magic available to him had failed, he sought out those not available. From the blind diviners of the Silver Peaks to the weird Oracles of the Four Winds he had travelled, journeying three continents and five seas in his quest and expending a great deal of magic to hasten his progress.
Finally, he had come here, to an old friend, in Zalwyn.
At the temple gates, Alambur called into being a small horse, and rode it towards the sun. It had not yet reached its zenith when he saw his destination.
Rising abruptly from the flat grasslands of Zalwyn, there is a large cluster of buildings. The cluster is not as large as a city, yet the buildings themselves would conduct themselves well as any kingdom’s seats of power.
They were over a dozen of the great, imposing palaces. They were monolithic in their construction, all fashioned of a grey rock Alambur knew to be as hard as adamantine. The proximity of the place set his magically attuned senses abuzz.
Alambur had been here before, a long time ago. He did not come to the Colleges of Spellcraft lightly, for the journey was long, and his induction into the circles arcane had been in the old way, as an apprentice to an archwizard.
The mage rode, exhausted, to the cluster of buildings. They were encircled by no visible fence or wall, nor guarded by anything corporeal, yet had he not been recognised as an ally and a fellow wizard, he would have been slain a mile from the spot. No people wandered the courtyards or traversed the paved network of pathways that networked the schools. A man not acquainted with the ways of the Colleges of Spellcraft would have assumed the place abandoned.
From the shadow of what Alambur knew to be the Most Beguiling College of Enchanters and Charmcrafters emerged a young man clad in plain, functional leathers.
“Shall I take care of your horse, sir?” the young wizard asked.
“The horse takes care of itself, pupil, but you may send word to the Archwizard Crimban,” Alambur said as he dismounted the horse that dissolved into mist and blew away. “Tell him that the Resplendent Flame has arrived.”
* * *
“Hail, Alambur!” the portly, grey-clad wizard exclaimed as Alambur stepped into the foyer of the College of Puissant Summoners and Conjurers. Though the colleges were all of grey rock on the outside, what lay within varied from school to wondrous school. The conjurers’ entry hall was resplendent in blue-veined marble and polished gold.
“Hail, Crimban,” Alambur answered, smiling.
“You look like crap,” Crimban said.
“It is why I came here. You have arranged what I requested in my sendings?”
“Yes, follow me,” Crimban said, turning around. “It was not easy to get access to it. The diviners are fairly jealous of what they’ve got. They’re renting the dungeons from the conjurers, though, since their own can’t handle the damn thing. I called in a favour with High Corpsecaller Kelgore to arrange this,” Crimban explained, as he led them down a corridor and to a heavy door of adamantine, set with iron hinges and a lock of silver into a doorframe of byeshk. Crimban glanced at Alambur and continued: “He must really like you. I didn’t think he’d do it,” and pushed the door open.
Beyond, there was a deep, black corridor that sloped and curved into the earth. Before entering, Crimban produced a sunrod from his voluminous robes and struck it on a wall, bringing forth a bright, steady light.
They stepped through, and shut the door behind them. As the sunrod’s alchemically produced illumination played over the dark, stones, carved with an unbroken network of runes Alambur felt a leaden weighs settle on his brain. The runes deadened all magic in the passageway. It was but one of the safety precautions taken by the wizards when constructing the vast network of caverns that they occasionally had need of in their otherworldly workings.
“There is a group of alchemists and artificers down there already. They have been whining to get access to the creature for a long time, and now that we’re breaching the seals, they figured that they might just as well get their business done at the same time.”
The mages hustled down the passageway for half an hour, stopping occasionally that Alambur could rest his feeble legs, and every now and then passing strong vault doors made of rare materials and sealed with runes and spells. Here lay imprisoned a score of Dukes of Hell, an archdemon of pain and hatred, a fallen hound archon, a white slaad, and, some said, even a nameless demigod.
Finally, they stopped to a door of black adamantine. The lock was open, and Crimban merely had to pull it open.
The chamber they entered was large. The ceiling, from which hundreds of chains, strange tubes and ropes hung, disappeared into the shadows above. The walls were lined with strange apparatuses, where sparks jumped between copper wands, and gauges monitored the pressure in great containers of viscous, greenish fluid that bubbled occasionally.
They were greeted by a man in heavy work robes, his face obscured by a breathing mask and goggles. In his hand he carried a long, two-pronged spear.
“We have been expecting you. I am the Artificer Vyach,” he spoke curtly, his voice distorted and robbed of any tone or colour by the mask. “You will need to conclude your business with the Gzemnidai first. It will not be able to answer any questions for some time once we have had our way with it.”
“This suits me fine. Where is it?”
“They are just bringing it in,” the man – if it was a man – replied, gesturing with a hand hidden by a heavy work glove at the far wall.
A door of metal slightly less bulky than the previous one was pushed open, and two alchemists scurried in, kicking aside tubes and pipes that littered the floor. Then, the other shouted back into the doorway:
“Clear! Bring it in!”
From the doorway emerged first two men, pulling heavy chains behind them. The chain were attached to a metal rig on the floor, moving on oiled rails and itself trailing even heavier chains that trailed, taut, into the doorway. The robed men pulled the rig to a spot in the floor that was marked by deep depressions next to the rails, and then pulled down long levers on the rig, locking it firmly in place.
Then, the creature was brought in. It was chained to the rigs on the floor, yet it floated a good two feet above the oily stones. Its bulbous body, nearly fifteen feet across, was held in check by the two-pronged spears stuck in it by four alchemists in similar heavy-duty work robes.
Though Alambur knew the creature’s true nature, it took him a moment to recognise it for what it was. Its eyestalks had been pinned down against its body and fitted with metal covers. A metallic cage enveloped its entire body, keeping it weighed down. What little of its carapace and flesh could be seen was in poor condition, mottled with age and covered in pus. It reeked of a carcass three weeks dead, a sickly odour that mixed with the iron and oil of the chamber and nearly made the wizards retch.
A second chain rig was pushed in and locked into place, anchoring the monster low above the floor with little room to move. The spearmen drew back, but kept their weapons trained on the monster.
The Artificer Vyach gestured Alambur forward, indicating he could now ask his questions. The creature had been brought in back first, and the wizard had to circle around it to see its face.
Drool dribbled from a metal grate locked in front of its wide mouth that Alambur knew to be filled with long, razor-sharp teeth. Above the grate was the creature’s single eye. The bars of the cage kept its eyelids open. A copper slab, charged with a low current, extended from the cage to the eye obscured the creature’s pupil and locked it in place. It was slick with fluid. (Picture 2)
“What do you want of my perfection, inferior worm?” the creature demanded, spittle spraying from the grate.
“I seek information, Gzemnidi. Answer my questions without duplicity, lest we resort to force. I know it was you that broke the Imperial Host of the Gaelyn on the sands of Kerak. You were long the ally of the snake cults of the desert, and you know their fell rituals and curses. This I request – tell me how I may break the Sevenfold Curse of the Drought of Flesh?”
“The curse ends when your body rots. There is no cure, worm.”
“He is lying,” one of the alchemists stated flatly, examining a steel wand with a soft, red glow.
In response, two of the men with spears stepped forth and jabbed their blades into the Gzemnidi’s diseased flesh. It let out an inhuman scream of rage that quickly turned to pain when bright arcs of lightning raced up the spears’ iron shafts and struck the beast. The stench of burning flesh spread into the room, and the spears were withdrawn.
“I shall have your entrails to feats on, pitiful maggots and cattle creatures! You dare lay hand on the favoured servant of the Gas Giant! An endless diohurr on you! I –“ it was cut off as the alchemists moved forth again, delivering a second, longer jolt.
Smoke rose from the panting Gzemnidi when they withdrew, and it was quiet for a long time.
“Very well, food. To break the curse, taste of the vampiric fruit. Its location I know not. Begone, now.”
Alambur nodded, and stepped back.
“I have what I require. You may attend to your business, Artificer Vyach. I thank for your assistance.”
The robed figure nodded.
“You may stay to watch and learn, if you wish,” the artificer said.
“Very well. What is it that you seek with the Gzemnidi?” Alambur asked, as a lower-ranking apprentice drew forth a great syringe of iron and glass.
“We will extract its vitreous fluid. It is a most potent reagent, especially from such a powerful and aged specimen.”
The Gzemnidi was forced low and immobilised by the spearmen with carefully moderated jolts of lightning, and a fifth man then slowly pushed the needle inside the creature’s central eye, withdrawing a full pint of pale, milky liquid from the enormous ocular.
“Interesting,” Alambur said.
* * *
As Alambur and Crimban walked up the dark passage some minutes later, the portly mage spoke:
“The Gzeminidi was being rather obtuse. Are you sure you know what it is that you now seek?”
“Yes, quite sure. The fruit it spoke of is the apple of the Gulthias Tree, that grew from a green stake stuck into the heart of a powerful vampire, deep in the heart of a fortress sunk into the earth centuries ago. I also know that the Tree was uprooted and planted again in a different place.”
“Where, and by whom, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”
“In the Spawnscale Castle, by none other than the Dragonlord himself.” Alambur paused to catch his breath. “It’s a good thing he owes me a favour.”
* * *
A week had passed since his encounter with the Gzemnidi, as the noonday sun found Alambur on a different continent.
He had tied himself firmly to the mule’s back to prevent falling off on the narrow mountain trails. Though he had an enspelled orichalcum ring that kept the biting chill from affecting him, the thin air of the high peaks he could not counter, and he kept physical exertion to a minimum, controlling the animal by the power of a spell of telepathy.
Slumped on the back of the animal, he glanced forward and up. Though the sun reflecting off the ice-capped peaks stung his eyes, he could already see the high gates of his destination looming above him.
A pair of short, reptilian guardsmen approached. Their hide was reddish-brown, flecked with metallic overtones. One of them addressed him in the ancient speech of dragons.
“Is the warmblood lost? What does he wish with the Dragonlord’s nests?”
“I am Alambur of the Resplendent Flame,” the wizard wheezed out, weakly. “Tell your lord and master that I am come.” The language of dragons was also the language of magic, and rare indeed was the civilised mage who was not fluent in it.
The other guard left, while the other stayed to keep an eye on him. Minutes passed, and he was admitted into the fortress. His mule, this time an animal of real flesh and blood, was taken to the stables by another short lizard man, this one clad in heavy furs. Alambur guessed the gatekeepers had a touch of the silver dragon in them, letting them ignore cold, but obviously, not all the reptilians in the castle were thus endowed.
The courtyard was wide and open, as could be expected. He was led across it, and inside the main keep, a blocky and graceless building. He could hear the sound of picks and hammers deeper in the fortress. The castle was not yet finished.
As he entered the keep, Alambur noticed he could suddenly breathe easier, and the sensation of coolness was gone. Spells had been laid in the rocks already, though the castle was still being built.
The keep was small, and he was soon in the main hall, where four men stood guard. Two of them were dwarves, one of them human, and the last one a short, scaled one. The room was dominated by a stony throne, with its back carved in the form of a rearing dragon. Upon the throne sat the Dragonlord.
“I greet you as an ally, Alambur, the Resplendent Flame,” the creature said, fixing him with a red-eyed stare and rising from his seat of power. His white scalemail, worn over his own red scales, clinked as he moved. “It has been years, but not so many. Humans age fast, but not that fast. Something ails you.”
“I greet you as well, respected Dragonlord,” Alambur replied. “My condition is why I am here. It is a curse that you have the means of breaking.”
“I do?” the Dragonlord asked. Alambur thought that had he been capable of reading its draconic features, he would have seen surprise.
“The Gulthias Tree and its fruit. I know you and Gorgoldand dug out the citadel and moved the tree here. Eating the apple will break my curse.”
“The fruit cures any ailment, illness, disease or poison, wizard. It is a powerful asset for me. Why should I give of it to you?” The Dragonlord laid a hand on the pommel of its short sword as it spoke.
“You owe me, Dragonlord. Were it not for me and my companions, you’d still be guarding your dress of mail as the kicking boy of the tribe, or more likely been killed by goblins or fed to your ward. Remember who it was that told you of the tree in the first place and killed the tribe of Durnn,” Alambur spoke, stepping forward and his staff striking sparks from the floor. A harsh edge appeared in his thin voice. “The Tree bears fruit every year. You are not even giving away anything irreplaceable.”
The Dragonlord fixed him with a long, inscrutable stare.
“Very well, Alambur of the Resplendent Flame. I owe you this, I admit, and afterwards, we are even. Come.”
They walked out of the hall, and down stairs, deep into the earth. The Gulthias Tree, grown of a vampire, could not survive sunlight.
“I cannot show you the way to the Tree, but we keep the apple here, when it is ripe,” the Dragonlord stated, pushing open a wooden door.
There lay the objective of his year-long quest – a perfect, green apple, held in a ceremonial cup carved of turquoise by the blind craftsmen of the Eastern Isles, set on a small altar decorated with vines and painted with the strange, angular runes of the dwarven script. Torchlight made its smooth, shiny skin seem like it was carved of gold, and no blemish or scar marked its surface.
Shrugging, Alambur stepped forward and took the apple.
It was delicious.
NiTessine
Explorer
And here's Hellefire's noggin on a stick, too. Sorry, couldn't find a silver platter.
I seem to have made some errors in the picture placement. Picture 1 should be Picture 3 and I forgot to mention where Picture 1 makes an appearance, but I hope the judges can figure that one out themselves.
I seem to have made some errors in the picture placement. Picture 1 should be Picture 3 and I forgot to mention where Picture 1 makes an appearance, but I hope the judges can figure that one out themselves.
Deuce Traveler
Adventurer
I just wanted to say, that if I win, I demand a victory parade. Or at least a picture of one.
Long Live the King?
Long Live the King?
Esid slowly ended his trance, ready for another day cycle. As always, his first cognizant feeling was one of loss and despair. Six years, and still the death of the King ached inside him. Esid began his daily ritual of brain-storming in the usual way - trying to convince himself he was still sane.
"The King died. They broadcast a holo-image to the entire fleet."
"Holo-images can be faked. They never released the death pictures."
"If they had released the death pictures, it would have detracted from the majesty of the High Court."
"That's propaganda. Like the burial in space. We haven't had a burial in space in a few millenniums, since the discovery of other sentient life. Bad for the intra-solar environment."
"It *IS* bad for the intra-solar environment. But you have to admit, the King is a special case."
Indeed, the King was a special case. In almost every way possible. That is how he came to be King, even as a third-stage life form. Just thinking about his melodious voice helped bring Esid's chaotic mind into harmony. His voice had so contrasted with the monotone language used by the Travelers.
Esid let his dominant side take control of his mental functions. He wondered if that meant that the conspiracy-theorist side of him had won the conversation. It was never easy being a split-personality. Of course, he wasn't technically split-personality. Like all Travelers, he had been incubated along with his twin. In some freak occurrence that nobody had been able to explain, the twins had joined. Both had been fused into a single Traveler, physically. Mentally, Esid was able to have discussions with himself. Sometimes it helped give him perspective. Sometimes it just made him feel nuts.
Esid absorbed his morning nutrient supplement in his private quarters, as always. Interaction with other Travelers was kept to a minimum as they approached planet X12-03. It was the sixth planet they had visited which was home to third-stage life forms. All third-stage life forms looked basically the same, with mostly external features and small eyes. Their molecular make-up and the components of their individual planets differed, however. Each new planet required alterations to Esid's appearance and data-gathering sensors. It took most of his time to adjust to the changes, and minimal contact with other Travelers was vital for him to complete the transformation.
Esid sometimes missed his natural Traveler's body, with its internal features, simple streamlined shape and large eyes. His normal eyes allowed for better collection of data from the various spectrums. Thinking of his eyes made him wince. They were completing his eye transformation today, and he hated that part most.
"You could just accept that the King is dead and not do this anymore," suggested his twin.
"Shhhh," Esid thought to himself/his twin, again bringing the King's voice to mind to steady himself.
After morning nutrients, Esid looked around his elegantly utilitarian room with his natural eyes. "See you in about a month," he thought to his room, and made his way down the private hallway to the reconstructive surgery room. He refused to think about the possibility of not 'seeing' things normally within a month.
The surgeon, one of the two Travelers Esid was allowed contact with this close to planet fall, greeted him in the same monotone way he always did. "Lie down and remain still."
Esid did as he was told. The Travelers society was built for efficiency. Their technology, their bodies, their thought patterns, even their speech had evolved into the most effective way to assimilate and communicate information. Emotions in all their myriad form had been removed to allow information to flow without blockage. That was ideal. Or at least, that had seemed ideal, until the King had come. Esid caught himself and suspended this new thought-path in order to pay attention to the surgeon.
"We are almost complete with adapting your body to its latest third-stage level," the surgeon was saying. "I will be testing a new procedure today. We may be able to keep some of your fifth-stage functionality, even inside your degraded body."
Esid almost moved. Keep his functionality? He felt a surge of happiness. "And that," he mentally told his internal twin, "is a good example of why emotions are important."
"Of course," the surgeon continued, "this is a test procedure. It will also be less comfortable than the normal operation."
Esid felt a twinge of apprehension. 'Comfortable' was never a term he associated with this step. A voice came inside his mind, unbidden. "And that was a good example of what?"
"Shut up," Esid told himself, and began his meditations. He survived these surgeries by keeping his mind focused on the data regarding his mission.
Fact: The King came to the Traveler Fleet 29 years ago.
Question: Where did he come from?
Fact: The King arrived in an unidentified spacecraft of intra-solar design, obviously built by some fifth-stage civilization.
Question: Who built the craft?
Question: How did a third-stage life form get to be on board?
Question: Why was the third-stage life form alone when it reached them?
Question: How and why was the craft navigated toward the Fleet?
Fact: Information flow is most vital.
Fact: Emotions cause fluctuations and lessening of information flow.
Fact: Therefore, emotions are undesirable.
Observation: When combined with a certain spectrum wavelength, produced by emotions, information flow is heightened exponentially and achieves new dimensionality.
Observation: The King induced emotions in the correct wavelength to improve information flow in over 90% of the Travelers. Those that were not affected did not lose any informational faculties.
Conclusion: Emotion can be useful and highly beneficial.
Question: How did the King produce and radiate the correct emotions?
Question: How were these emotions received and used by others?
Question: How can this effect be reproduced?
Question: Can there be any harmful effects?
Fact: The King reportedly died of 'natural causes' six years ago.
Fact: The King's body was discovered by members of the High Court.
Fact: The King's death holos were never shown to the public.
Question: Did the King actually die?
Question: Did the King actually die of 'natural causes'?
Question: What were the 'natural causes' for his civilization?
The questions always added up faster than the facts.
Fact: The King's funeral was highly unortha-***OOOOOOOUCH***!!!!
Esid was ripped from his meditation by a fiery pain in his right eye. [Picture 2]. His natural eye had been removed, and a third-stage eye implanted. The surgeon had clamped the new eye open and somehow re-attached some of the fifth-stage sensors to it. Esid though this would be ideal, but now he could sense all that was happening with his full fifth-stage abilities.
In a monumental effort of will, Esid managed to stay still. He couldn't even move to tell the surgeon what was happening. His mind spiraled toward madness, as voices from both his halves screamed in pain. Somewhere inside, the voice of the King came. The screaming became more focused and controlled. Then everything went black.
Waking up in the surgery room, Esid felt his entire being was on fire. The pain slowly concentrated onto his face, then specifically to his eyes. The surgeon's voice came from the space next to him. "The discomfort will go away in two days, and you will be able to use your new eyes then. Until that time, you will remain here and I will monitor your progress."
Esid heard the emotionless tone of the surgeons voice, and deeply wished he could project an image of his pain into the surgeons head. Unfortunately, in this form he could not. Again wondering about the merits and detriments of emotions, Esid lapsed back into unconsciousness.
After two days of passing in and out of lucidity, Esid's condition did indeed stabilize. The cost had been extreme, but his ability to use his full functions inside this new form was unbelievably empowering. While he certainly looked different on the outside, the familiar incoming senses made Esid feel able, in control, and even hopeful. "Maybe this is a sign," he told himself. There was no answer.
"Hello," he thought, "anybody home?"
No answer.
Esid began to feel panicked. He felt completely alone. "Surgeon!!"
"Yes?" came the flat reply.
"I cannot hear, er, find, er...my twin is missing!"
The surgeon calmly came to Esid and attached some monitoring devices. He watched his monitors for about 20 minutes, then shrugged. "I cannot come to any definitive conclusions. Continue preparing for your mission, and let me know if anything changes."
If anything changes?? Everything had changed! Esid made his way back down the corridor to his room. The rest of the week he spent reviewing and re-reviewing facts and ideas about the King. He constantly listened for his twin, but there was nothing.
Two changes occurred in Esid. First, he began to feel trapped and alone in his own mind. There was nobody else there, and there was no way out. Second, he found new conviction in his belief that there was information missing about the death of the King. The King was either murdered or still alive. He knew it!
Esid awoke the morning of the day he would make planet fall. He had not been able to enter trance, only finding some reprieve in sleep. Lack of trance was starting to take effect; he was worn thin and worried about his twin. [Picture 1]. Trying to resolve these conflicts, Esid sat and contemplated the coming day.
The TR-12, their ship, would come out of intra-space later in the morning. They would be in orbit around X12-03, and he would make planet fall by early afternoon. If they could find a trace of the King's funeral ship from orbit, it would make his job much easier. Of course, nobody had been able to trace the funeral ship in six years. Esid thought, "That would definitely be a sign!" Still, no reply. He slowly stood up and entered the public corridor for the first time in over a week.
The crew of the TR-12 wished Esid success as he made his way to the teleport room. They each sent their individual information regarding the King, so that he could assimilate any knew knowledge that might help in his mission. He entered the teleport room, which sealed with a light 'clang', and he was again alone. Esid sat on the teleport pad and waited.
A light on the ceiling blinked red. The ship was coming out of intra-space. A few seconds after arriving, communication sensors would come back online. This was always the point that Esid held his breathe in hope and anticipation.
Esid waited and counted. 30 seconds. 60 seconds. 120 seconds. Then the voice came through the ships comm system. "I have it. The voice of the King! Streaming now!"
Through the comm system came the voice. The voice of the King! It was unmistakable. It was unique. It contained the emotional spectrum that had changed the Travelers. But, it was also intermittent. There were other voices in the background. Other emotions. Some emotions Esid had never experienced. He felt information going in every different direction at once, and it rather hurt. Then, silence.
"The voice of the King is here," stated the comm system, "but we do not know if it is live or re-transmitted. There are also many other voices, which are affecting us adversely. We have to block them all out in order to function. We have also traced the funeral ship!"
Esid's mind went into overdrive. "The funeral ship! We've found it! Answers, at last!" The King was here, and apparently alive!
"Because of the informational shift of the voices, the trace is only approximate. You will be placed in the proximity we have for the ship, but we do not have a precise location. Prepare for planet fall."
Esid stood up and went to the middle of the teleport pad. Hardly able to contain his good emotions, and still confused by the new emotions which he did not know how to filter, Esid was having trouble thinking clearly. He meditated on the voice of the King, and awaited planet fall.
The teleport was instantaneous. It always was, but the change in center-of-gravity always made Esid stumble when he arrived. Luckily in this case, because a large object passed through the space he had landed in a fraction of a second after he fell out of its way. A life form inside the object said something loudly and with unpleasant emotions, as the object continued on its path.
Esid backed away from similar moving objects, and inspected his surroundings. There were third-stage life forms around him, all walking and talking at the same time. Their voices were a strange mixture of monotone and emotional inflection. They certainly did not project the same emotions as the King, but they just as certainly projected some kinds of emotions. A couple were pleasant, but mostly they were confusing and somewhat painful.
Taking a deep breathe, Esid filtered out the emotions as much as possible and surveyed other objects. There were primitive (and highly emotional) dwellings and commissary-type buildings. The civilization appeared to use entirely land-based transportation without much management or reasoning. Esid wondered why the King would come here? Or if maybe somebody forced him to come here? The life forms could certainly use some harmonious emotions.
Esid began walking with the local life forms and checking for useful information. The emotions present were almost overpowering, and Esid wished that he could filter his fifth-stage sensors. In addition to visual and oral form, Esid found information in printed form. While he knew that some civilizations restricted their information flow by capturing it inside little prisons, he had never actually seen it. There were apparently thousands of these little knowledge cells, and Esid wondered how he would free enough of it to find the King and the funeral ship.
Esid began investigating written information. How strange these little jails were. Apparently information was not only captured, it was also hidden from some life forms! While inspecting one of them, a life form approached and began speaking with extremely negative emotions about 'buying' it. So information was held and only offered in limited form, for a certain value. At another location, a life form physically removed the prison from Esid's hands. Approaching physical contact! The arrangement was so incomprehensible to Esid that he was at a loss as to how to proceed.
Esid transmitted this information to the TR-12 in his hourly report. He filtered out as much emotion as he could from the data, because he knew that too many emotions would corrupt that data.
Sitting down on an object being used similarly by local life forms, Esid glanced into the commissary-type buildings near him. Suddenly he felt a surge of hope as he saw it. One of the little prisons, with a picture of the King on the top! Esid had found that they were designed to indicate their prisoners on the cover. Was it possible, that the King was inside that prison? Esid ran into the building to find out.
Opening the prison, Esid found information only regarding the King! It even had his name in it! Absorbing the information further, Esid found that the King had been here prior to coming to the Travelers Fleet. His heart dropped a bit, because there was no indication of the King being here now. There were, however, some oddly-familiar ideas.
It seemed that the King had been here for 42 years. He had been with the Travelers for 24 years. That looked like an interesting re-arrangement of digits. Searching further, Esid saw another re-arrangement. This one was using the Kings name, and indicated that the King may be alive! With these thoughts still in his head, Esid re-arranged other numbers and words. When he came to his own name, he though of his twin and felt an extreme sorrow. Deciding, or maybe hoping, that coincidence played a part in some of the meanings, he stepped back outside.
As he glanced around, Esid found many examples of captive information. In front of one building was the word 'Greyhound.' In front of another was 'Ho Que's Chinese Restaurant.' Why would anybody capture information in a non-mobile form? As Esid was trying to understand the logic involved, one of the large objects that were part of the primitive transportation system moved. Esid gasped.
There it was! The King's funeral ship! It was upside down, where it had possibly crash-landed, and had filled with water. But there it was! He had found it! [Picture 3].
Hastily pulling out his hand comm device, Esid sent an emergency signal to the TR-12 to open a communication channel. He sent it twice, to indicate a non-life-threatening emergency, but do it NOW! Seconds later, a confirmation blip came out.
"I found it!" Esid said into his comm. He was trying to shout or add emotion, so that the data would not be corrupted. "I found the King's funeral ship! I have no definitive proof yet, but our hypothesis may be true! King Elvis may be alive, and may have been abducted by these aliens!"
Long Live the King?
Esid slowly ended his trance, ready for another day cycle. As always, his first cognizant feeling was one of loss and despair. Six years, and still the death of the King ached inside him. Esid began his daily ritual of brain-storming in the usual way - trying to convince himself he was still sane.
"The King died. They broadcast a holo-image to the entire fleet."
"Holo-images can be faked. They never released the death pictures."
"If they had released the death pictures, it would have detracted from the majesty of the High Court."
"That's propaganda. Like the burial in space. We haven't had a burial in space in a few millenniums, since the discovery of other sentient life. Bad for the intra-solar environment."
"It *IS* bad for the intra-solar environment. But you have to admit, the King is a special case."
Indeed, the King was a special case. In almost every way possible. That is how he came to be King, even as a third-stage life form. Just thinking about his melodious voice helped bring Esid's chaotic mind into harmony. His voice had so contrasted with the monotone language used by the Travelers.
Esid let his dominant side take control of his mental functions. He wondered if that meant that the conspiracy-theorist side of him had won the conversation. It was never easy being a split-personality. Of course, he wasn't technically split-personality. Like all Travelers, he had been incubated along with his twin. In some freak occurrence that nobody had been able to explain, the twins had joined. Both had been fused into a single Traveler, physically. Mentally, Esid was able to have discussions with himself. Sometimes it helped give him perspective. Sometimes it just made him feel nuts.
Esid absorbed his morning nutrient supplement in his private quarters, as always. Interaction with other Travelers was kept to a minimum as they approached planet X12-03. It was the sixth planet they had visited which was home to third-stage life forms. All third-stage life forms looked basically the same, with mostly external features and small eyes. Their molecular make-up and the components of their individual planets differed, however. Each new planet required alterations to Esid's appearance and data-gathering sensors. It took most of his time to adjust to the changes, and minimal contact with other Travelers was vital for him to complete the transformation.
Esid sometimes missed his natural Traveler's body, with its internal features, simple streamlined shape and large eyes. His normal eyes allowed for better collection of data from the various spectrums. Thinking of his eyes made him wince. They were completing his eye transformation today, and he hated that part most.
"You could just accept that the King is dead and not do this anymore," suggested his twin.
"Shhhh," Esid thought to himself/his twin, again bringing the King's voice to mind to steady himself.
After morning nutrients, Esid looked around his elegantly utilitarian room with his natural eyes. "See you in about a month," he thought to his room, and made his way down the private hallway to the reconstructive surgery room. He refused to think about the possibility of not 'seeing' things normally within a month.
The surgeon, one of the two Travelers Esid was allowed contact with this close to planet fall, greeted him in the same monotone way he always did. "Lie down and remain still."
Esid did as he was told. The Travelers society was built for efficiency. Their technology, their bodies, their thought patterns, even their speech had evolved into the most effective way to assimilate and communicate information. Emotions in all their myriad form had been removed to allow information to flow without blockage. That was ideal. Or at least, that had seemed ideal, until the King had come. Esid caught himself and suspended this new thought-path in order to pay attention to the surgeon.
"We are almost complete with adapting your body to its latest third-stage level," the surgeon was saying. "I will be testing a new procedure today. We may be able to keep some of your fifth-stage functionality, even inside your degraded body."
Esid almost moved. Keep his functionality? He felt a surge of happiness. "And that," he mentally told his internal twin, "is a good example of why emotions are important."
"Of course," the surgeon continued, "this is a test procedure. It will also be less comfortable than the normal operation."
Esid felt a twinge of apprehension. 'Comfortable' was never a term he associated with this step. A voice came inside his mind, unbidden. "And that was a good example of what?"
"Shut up," Esid told himself, and began his meditations. He survived these surgeries by keeping his mind focused on the data regarding his mission.
Fact: The King came to the Traveler Fleet 29 years ago.
Question: Where did he come from?
Fact: The King arrived in an unidentified spacecraft of intra-solar design, obviously built by some fifth-stage civilization.
Question: Who built the craft?
Question: How did a third-stage life form get to be on board?
Question: Why was the third-stage life form alone when it reached them?
Question: How and why was the craft navigated toward the Fleet?
Fact: Information flow is most vital.
Fact: Emotions cause fluctuations and lessening of information flow.
Fact: Therefore, emotions are undesirable.
Observation: When combined with a certain spectrum wavelength, produced by emotions, information flow is heightened exponentially and achieves new dimensionality.
Observation: The King induced emotions in the correct wavelength to improve information flow in over 90% of the Travelers. Those that were not affected did not lose any informational faculties.
Conclusion: Emotion can be useful and highly beneficial.
Question: How did the King produce and radiate the correct emotions?
Question: How were these emotions received and used by others?
Question: How can this effect be reproduced?
Question: Can there be any harmful effects?
Fact: The King reportedly died of 'natural causes' six years ago.
Fact: The King's body was discovered by members of the High Court.
Fact: The King's death holos were never shown to the public.
Question: Did the King actually die?
Question: Did the King actually die of 'natural causes'?
Question: What were the 'natural causes' for his civilization?
The questions always added up faster than the facts.
Fact: The King's funeral was highly unortha-***OOOOOOOUCH***!!!!
Esid was ripped from his meditation by a fiery pain in his right eye. [Picture 2]. His natural eye had been removed, and a third-stage eye implanted. The surgeon had clamped the new eye open and somehow re-attached some of the fifth-stage sensors to it. Esid though this would be ideal, but now he could sense all that was happening with his full fifth-stage abilities.
In a monumental effort of will, Esid managed to stay still. He couldn't even move to tell the surgeon what was happening. His mind spiraled toward madness, as voices from both his halves screamed in pain. Somewhere inside, the voice of the King came. The screaming became more focused and controlled. Then everything went black.
Waking up in the surgery room, Esid felt his entire being was on fire. The pain slowly concentrated onto his face, then specifically to his eyes. The surgeon's voice came from the space next to him. "The discomfort will go away in two days, and you will be able to use your new eyes then. Until that time, you will remain here and I will monitor your progress."
Esid heard the emotionless tone of the surgeons voice, and deeply wished he could project an image of his pain into the surgeons head. Unfortunately, in this form he could not. Again wondering about the merits and detriments of emotions, Esid lapsed back into unconsciousness.
After two days of passing in and out of lucidity, Esid's condition did indeed stabilize. The cost had been extreme, but his ability to use his full functions inside this new form was unbelievably empowering. While he certainly looked different on the outside, the familiar incoming senses made Esid feel able, in control, and even hopeful. "Maybe this is a sign," he told himself. There was no answer.
"Hello," he thought, "anybody home?"
No answer.
Esid began to feel panicked. He felt completely alone. "Surgeon!!"
"Yes?" came the flat reply.
"I cannot hear, er, find, er...my twin is missing!"
The surgeon calmly came to Esid and attached some monitoring devices. He watched his monitors for about 20 minutes, then shrugged. "I cannot come to any definitive conclusions. Continue preparing for your mission, and let me know if anything changes."
If anything changes?? Everything had changed! Esid made his way back down the corridor to his room. The rest of the week he spent reviewing and re-reviewing facts and ideas about the King. He constantly listened for his twin, but there was nothing.
Two changes occurred in Esid. First, he began to feel trapped and alone in his own mind. There was nobody else there, and there was no way out. Second, he found new conviction in his belief that there was information missing about the death of the King. The King was either murdered or still alive. He knew it!
Esid awoke the morning of the day he would make planet fall. He had not been able to enter trance, only finding some reprieve in sleep. Lack of trance was starting to take effect; he was worn thin and worried about his twin. [Picture 1]. Trying to resolve these conflicts, Esid sat and contemplated the coming day.
The TR-12, their ship, would come out of intra-space later in the morning. They would be in orbit around X12-03, and he would make planet fall by early afternoon. If they could find a trace of the King's funeral ship from orbit, it would make his job much easier. Of course, nobody had been able to trace the funeral ship in six years. Esid thought, "That would definitely be a sign!" Still, no reply. He slowly stood up and entered the public corridor for the first time in over a week.
The crew of the TR-12 wished Esid success as he made his way to the teleport room. They each sent their individual information regarding the King, so that he could assimilate any knew knowledge that might help in his mission. He entered the teleport room, which sealed with a light 'clang', and he was again alone. Esid sat on the teleport pad and waited.
A light on the ceiling blinked red. The ship was coming out of intra-space. A few seconds after arriving, communication sensors would come back online. This was always the point that Esid held his breathe in hope and anticipation.
Esid waited and counted. 30 seconds. 60 seconds. 120 seconds. Then the voice came through the ships comm system. "I have it. The voice of the King! Streaming now!"
Through the comm system came the voice. The voice of the King! It was unmistakable. It was unique. It contained the emotional spectrum that had changed the Travelers. But, it was also intermittent. There were other voices in the background. Other emotions. Some emotions Esid had never experienced. He felt information going in every different direction at once, and it rather hurt. Then, silence.
"The voice of the King is here," stated the comm system, "but we do not know if it is live or re-transmitted. There are also many other voices, which are affecting us adversely. We have to block them all out in order to function. We have also traced the funeral ship!"
Esid's mind went into overdrive. "The funeral ship! We've found it! Answers, at last!" The King was here, and apparently alive!
"Because of the informational shift of the voices, the trace is only approximate. You will be placed in the proximity we have for the ship, but we do not have a precise location. Prepare for planet fall."
Esid stood up and went to the middle of the teleport pad. Hardly able to contain his good emotions, and still confused by the new emotions which he did not know how to filter, Esid was having trouble thinking clearly. He meditated on the voice of the King, and awaited planet fall.
The teleport was instantaneous. It always was, but the change in center-of-gravity always made Esid stumble when he arrived. Luckily in this case, because a large object passed through the space he had landed in a fraction of a second after he fell out of its way. A life form inside the object said something loudly and with unpleasant emotions, as the object continued on its path.
Esid backed away from similar moving objects, and inspected his surroundings. There were third-stage life forms around him, all walking and talking at the same time. Their voices were a strange mixture of monotone and emotional inflection. They certainly did not project the same emotions as the King, but they just as certainly projected some kinds of emotions. A couple were pleasant, but mostly they were confusing and somewhat painful.
Taking a deep breathe, Esid filtered out the emotions as much as possible and surveyed other objects. There were primitive (and highly emotional) dwellings and commissary-type buildings. The civilization appeared to use entirely land-based transportation without much management or reasoning. Esid wondered why the King would come here? Or if maybe somebody forced him to come here? The life forms could certainly use some harmonious emotions.
Esid began walking with the local life forms and checking for useful information. The emotions present were almost overpowering, and Esid wished that he could filter his fifth-stage sensors. In addition to visual and oral form, Esid found information in printed form. While he knew that some civilizations restricted their information flow by capturing it inside little prisons, he had never actually seen it. There were apparently thousands of these little knowledge cells, and Esid wondered how he would free enough of it to find the King and the funeral ship.
Esid began investigating written information. How strange these little jails were. Apparently information was not only captured, it was also hidden from some life forms! While inspecting one of them, a life form approached and began speaking with extremely negative emotions about 'buying' it. So information was held and only offered in limited form, for a certain value. At another location, a life form physically removed the prison from Esid's hands. Approaching physical contact! The arrangement was so incomprehensible to Esid that he was at a loss as to how to proceed.
Esid transmitted this information to the TR-12 in his hourly report. He filtered out as much emotion as he could from the data, because he knew that too many emotions would corrupt that data.
Sitting down on an object being used similarly by local life forms, Esid glanced into the commissary-type buildings near him. Suddenly he felt a surge of hope as he saw it. One of the little prisons, with a picture of the King on the top! Esid had found that they were designed to indicate their prisoners on the cover. Was it possible, that the King was inside that prison? Esid ran into the building to find out.
Opening the prison, Esid found information only regarding the King! It even had his name in it! Absorbing the information further, Esid found that the King had been here prior to coming to the Travelers Fleet. His heart dropped a bit, because there was no indication of the King being here now. There were, however, some oddly-familiar ideas.
It seemed that the King had been here for 42 years. He had been with the Travelers for 24 years. That looked like an interesting re-arrangement of digits. Searching further, Esid saw another re-arrangement. This one was using the Kings name, and indicated that the King may be alive! With these thoughts still in his head, Esid re-arranged other numbers and words. When he came to his own name, he though of his twin and felt an extreme sorrow. Deciding, or maybe hoping, that coincidence played a part in some of the meanings, he stepped back outside.
As he glanced around, Esid found many examples of captive information. In front of one building was the word 'Greyhound.' In front of another was 'Ho Que's Chinese Restaurant.' Why would anybody capture information in a non-mobile form? As Esid was trying to understand the logic involved, one of the large objects that were part of the primitive transportation system moved. Esid gasped.
There it was! The King's funeral ship! It was upside down, where it had possibly crash-landed, and had filled with water. But there it was! He had found it! [Picture 3].
Hastily pulling out his hand comm device, Esid sent an emergency signal to the TR-12 to open a communication channel. He sent it twice, to indicate a non-life-threatening emergency, but do it NOW! Seconds later, a confirmation blip came out.
"I found it!" Esid said into his comm. He was trying to shout or add emotion, so that the data would not be corrupted. "I found the King's funeral ship! I have no definitive proof yet, but our hypothesis may be true! King Elvis may be alive, and may have been abducted by these aliens!"
