Tales of the Asaatthi
For the curious, here is some 'in character' material I had to cut from my draft of Asaatthi because of room. Again, unofficial, but maybe people will find it interesting:
We are in every part Mormo, her ultimate expression.
Guts twine and knot as tangles of love, vessels threading to each extremity.
Our thoughts maze through arch constructions, our works spiral and define the land.
So perfect in form, each a reflection of the next, and of the whole.
— Observations, Potentiate of the Fourth Arch, from the Records of Hllssesch, possibly dating from the Epoch of Mormo.
The human lies before me, verminous and foetid as sickly prey.
Something fit for the waste-house, an assault to the senses.
It will repay this crime, tonight.
— Private notes of Ssekam, third Periapt Adept of the Green Circle, Lost City.
Fifteen windings are birds in flight, when I last beheld the silent mountain.
A hundred emeralds march across my breast, valiant soldiers under my command.
Brown feathers, the lowlands of my ancestors.
There is a spot of black mud, casually placed on my hand.
It does not do to claim perfection.
— Section 1.a09, tablet uncovered near the Lost City, possibly late Epoch of Mormo.
Six is the perfect number. It is the body. It is the embrace of the mother. Slaves are a dim reflection of our perfection, yet they are harmonious. Five is the number of humans, unclean, incomplete. To behead is to utterly revile the body, a punishment only fit for slaves.
— Dictates of Master Hrssupep, possibly from the late Epoch of Gulaben.
From warmth to cold I came, frantically clutching those near, hunting for comfort. Through the days I thread, always yearning for warmth.
From warmth to cold I shall come, clutching to the fading embers of my days. I will twist around the wooden bodies below, searching for warmth forever.
— Fifth quatrain, Tablet 310 of the Mrrrsilsh Tablets, tentatively dated to the final days of the Great Cataclysm. Most of these mithril tablets have been melted down over the centuries.
Darkness, cold, limbs, root.
The green fire has leapt from the tree. I am consumed.
Tail, limbs, warmth, darkness.
— Love poems of the Reshesshes, from the Ssels Dynasty near the beginning of the Age of Lethene.
The world crushes down on me, piercing skin with thirsty knives. I coil in the chamber, staring up at the hateful world, while my babies dream. I can feel them, each squirming innocent in its warm cell. My heat feeds them, my back cold against the land's hunger.
Each a sacrifice to the spite of the world. I would save them if I could, smash them on the rocks, let their dreams scatter back to the winds. But I cannot. The weight of eons demands I continue this charade. I feed them, prepare their sacrifice to the terrible world.
One day my dreams will pass and my burden will end.
— A Mother's Song, from the Paashetet Records, Uhullhe Dynasty of the late Epoch of Lethene.
Sleek youth, eyes burning amber, spies my power.
I guide, I shape, I mold.
And, anon... youth will age, quicken. And anon, perhaps I shall coil.
Guide, shape, mold.
All for the good of the race.
— Love Poems of the Reshesshes, from the Ssels Dynasty near the beginning of the Age of Lethene.
My teeth are at your throat.
Your claws are at my belly.
This gem catches a different light now.
— Five Stories from the Lake, stone tablets uncovered from the Lost City of Asaatthi.
Bright moon mocking.
The room is there still, the carvings upon the wall, the glittering gold and obsidian.
Only I have gone.
The wind gathers up her children.
— Second quatrain, Tablet 192 of the Mrrrsilsh Tablets, tentatively dated to the final days of the Great Cataclysm.
A fiery leaf spinning. The sun yields no heat to me. At its heart, I see hungry ice.
The peace I dreamt of slips, I cannot help but beg, one more hour! I am spinning.
— Stanza 8, 36 Dreams of Suhusslul, from the Scharassh Dynasty, early Epoch of Lethene.
Fire is eternal, shaping and creating all things. All things are fire.
Flame is the mate of stone, the two spinning and weaving existence. All things are flame and stone.
Generative fire is communicated in the tension between these contradictory truths, as diagrammed below.
— Fourth section of Beginning Fire Magics, Letters on Elemental Arcana, dating to the fifth Ssopatsh Dynasty in the late Epoch of Mormo.
Mother came down from the stars, twining round each of us.
To the swamp-dwellers, she gave her jeweled eyes to live in.
For the river-folk, she spat out broad serpentine waters.
For the desert-dwellers, her sleeping sands to care for.
For the clever ones, she cast out her gaze, and wherever it landed, it was theirs.
And us, we misborn, we twisted memories of her beauty. We get the rest.
— Tales of the Misbred.
