As the light strikes the elaborate bas-reliefs on the sides of an incredibly deep chamber, a narrative slowly forms, a tale of glorious deeds across the known lands of the earth, which in this case appears to be a single island, though rather elaborate in size. The Great Isle shows its curves resplendently, its history unfolding as the people on it discover the arts of fine stonework and tamed flame. It is then that the first men and women in boats arrive, colonizing its shores in the search for simpler subsistence before what one may infer to be a great cataclysm seems to wipe the eternal isle clean of all life and make it sink into the sea.
"Uh, dude, read in the other direction. It's not really clear, is it? Sorry."It is indeed not quite clear, but no matter. The people in the boats find the slumbering mountain of flame in the middle of their isle an altogether generous patron, as it has provided their land with ash and exposed stones and glass they had previously not known to the surface of the land. Subsistence is indeed simple, and the ambition of the people is realized. Their children are many, and soon the entire Great Isle is teeming with life, sending off its progeny to explore yet further into the unknown reaches of the ocean when their villages begin to fill with people and tensions begin to rise as resources begin to grow scarce.
The squalor mounts further and further despite the best efforts of the islanders to ship off as many of themselves as possible, and violence begins to ensue as the situation grows increasingly dire. It is from this violence that a need to organize arises, for fear that all will descend to a brawl that leaves the Isle empty of life. And so wise men and women start to dictate new codes to the people to regulate their conduct appropriately. Their work is a smashing success.
Organized by law, the newly founded two sides of the island then begin to make more civilized war upon one another, perfecting the noble arts of mass combat, ambushes, total war and even beginning to figure out siege warfare as the technology of fortifications improves. Combat is lovingly rendered with a great degree of accuracy and a surprising grasp of perspective for relief art, slightly marring the impression of great age. Furthermore, the art style doesn't shift back after a single man, chubby from the consumption of all the spoils of regular victory, has successfully subjugated the other side - the wrong side, as the following renderings of desperate defensive warfare show with copious amounts of death and flames.
Next comes the adaptation of the law - the chubby man speaks much to his people, codifying the ways to live as well as the ones to fight, and formulating a new society roughly built upon the one that the warring halves have largely forgotten by now. His wisdom is not universally accepted, and some continue to ship out, but they seem to universally meet horrible ends at the terrible fanged mouths of the beasts of the deep seas, and never reach fertile lands for their disobedience to the new law.
Of course, the new law is not quite perfect, it is clearly stated. The prosperity of the past is not quite regained under it, and it undergoes a great many revisions. The chubby king of the Great Isle sweats and labors over the law for many years until he is old and gray, and a great city rises up all around him as he calls in others to help out - the young and the old, the poor and the rich, to help him know what is best for all - with this the chubby king tries to make a perfect law, one where none will be restricted, but all will be protected. There is a slight madness in his eyes, one that does not subside when he seems to finally expire in a seated position, his eyes closing and his laws trailing off as the orderly columns of before trail off slightly to the left before becoming a single line that runs to the edge of the writing tablet.
The setting changes abruptly, becoming almost strangely photorealistic as the chubby king awakens upon a vast plain, nothing in sight for the longest time as he wanders about, seeking his old home, becoming younger as his mind becomes ever more involved in the search, a certain liveliness of the eyes becoming quite apparent as they start to glint in the light. He sits down and starts digging, his eyes growing manic as he produces a deep hole, his arms at first moving fast enough to warrant an additional, less accentuated representation, then becoming arms in their own right - from there, the number of limbs increases in the same, exponentially quickened fashion, and soon one cannot recognize the chubby king at all beneath the decreasingly human mass of functioning limbs, protruding eyeballs and many mouths. It's so lovingly drawn that it becomes a bit nightmarish in a way. And eventually there is no king left at all - just a hole in the ground, from where grows a great tower with a grander city far beneath, and on the floor at the very bottom of the staircase there seems to be an elaborate floor plan laid out, complete with illustrations of activity in each part of the city.
Larry looks up. That's about 15 floors he's descended. He is
not looking forward to going back up, that's for damn sure. His legs feel a little tired already.
"What do you think?" his kind host wonders, shaking a bellowing, glowing blessed salsa angel in a very long tentacle. The angel doesn't seem to be happy at having been used as a portable light source.
"Long for an introduction, maybe? It glosses over some parts, but it's a pretty good overview, methinks. Maybe could skip a detail or two. Got carried away with the fight scenes, maybe. Fifteen meters vertical might have been excessive just for that."He points the angel at four different tunnels, each going in a different direction.
"So, which district you wanna see first? The Reaches, the Depths, the Haunts or the Blights? Sweet cribs galore no matter which way you go, so feel free to pick based on mood."* * * * *
Yesterday was a terribly depressing day. Lots of exciting things have been on the news, most of them unequivocally terrible as usual. Lower Esplanade's exploded, giant denture castle has appeared in the ruins, a moon suddenly materializing on the horizon, then disappearing immediately. Things are taking a rather crazy turn.
It made one Kermit Q. Pilton rather happy to have cleared his schedule entirely for that day (or, rather, had Stan clear it for him), and he nearly succumbed to the temptation of going out to investigate some of these fascinating events. He had spells, and was certainly willing to put them to good use. But no! He had to wait. Maybe one of his magically gifted people would choose to call him that day - and in that event he had to be ready to put everything aside for the purpose. Wouldn't be nice to not give them the time of day, not at all.
As one may imagine, the next morning he is a bit pissed that nobody called the entire day. It's like nobody at all needs him anymore. They just take his matches and disappear off into the night. Damn it, that's not how being a master wizard ought to work. But what can he really do? Better ask Stan to clear his schedule for today as well. Not like there's anything on it anyway, but Mr. Pilton just enjoys giving that order to the guy.
"Stan! Clear my schedule for today!" he shouts from his office, feeling a little dirty in his suit, which he seems to have fallen asleep in by accident. Stan mumbles something back from outside - unimportant, whatever it was.
Suddenly, his phone rings. He checks the ID - says it's
John. He tries to remember who that might be, and narrows it down to two possible candidates - McLaren from down the hall, who's a prick, and Paula John from HR, who he distinctly recalls as having an awfully seductive voice and who he has never actually spoken to in person. He feels that the second possibility is likely enough to be worth the risk of accidentally talking to McLaren instead, and picks it up.
"Pilton speaking. How may I serve?" he tries to say professionally, though the latter part sounds a little bit like what a serf of some kind would utter. Ugh. It's doubly unfortunate, since it doesn't seem like Paula's on the other end at all, though there's a silver lining in that it doesn't sound like McLaren, either. Actually, whoever's on the other end sounds maybe a little drunk? Kermit could certainly sympathize - these were trying times, after all.
* * * * *
Dave relays Charles' reasonable request to the voice in his head, and before he's even at the end of it denture hell just up and shatters into millions of tiny grains of glass, luckily missing any of Dave's more sensitive membranes as the ensuing storm carries it all away, leaving Dave and his fine compatriot on what looks like a very unkempt lawn in the middle of a warm, wintry forest, with two ratty armchairs placed opposite one another, a flaming barrel placed between them, seemingly awaiting Dave's arrival.
In one of the armchairs sits... a shadow? It's a two-dimensional shape splayed out across its surface, green in color and vaguely corresponding to Dave's own silhouette, Charles included.
~Here we are! Cozy enough? Sit down, don't be shy,~ plays out the voice in his head, the shadow in the chair completely unmoving.
* * * * *
Halesey does not let up - the unholy drunkard must be purified of his non-tuberous urges, which most unfortunately for him happen to include both sleep and alcohol abuse. And what's more, both are to be performed post-haste, as the prophet of the Most Holy Potato has tarried for quite long enough.
"Yes, they are! It is a Holy Wake-up! You’ve been totally called, dude! God wants to give you a Sacred Potato."[Halesey's affinity roll: 4-1]
To punctuate the statement, a tuning fork jabs into the reprobate's shoulder, eliciting a grunt. Shockingly, though, it is a grunt of interest!
"Shit, really? Well! Better get up then!"He spins in place a little, getting himself into a rough semblance of order, wiping one of several conspicuous flecks of vomit from his clothes.
"Okay, dizzy now. Where's God, and where's my Sacred Potato?" he asks with what sounds like enthusiasm.
* * * * *
"There's also the fact that people don't break in half like these guys are doing when exposed to watermelon. Ah well, what could go wrong from walking into them? Actually, a bunch of things," THE DUNKER speaks to his voice as he walks through the shattered masses of the people in the parking lot, dodging a stray watermelon violently rolling around on the ground every once in a while. Energy's been very efficiently expended here, he thinks. Storm stopped just as pretty much everyone in the parking lot got smashed into several bits. Wondrous success, definitely!
~These are some pretty badass watermelons, man. Maybe you're not giving yourself enough credit,~ his inner voice says as he beholds the destruction one more time in its full splendor before walking in through the open entrance.
Within he spies a highly unusual thing. And that thing just so happens to be the factory - inside it is damp and very warm, and it smells of fake strawberries, like some form of body lotion. It's not at all an unpleasant smell, and it's rather tastefully faint. The walls are a bit difficult to see in the rather poor lighting, but they look strangely oily and mobile, shifting in a fleshy manner and making appropriate sounds to match. Same goes for the floor and the ceiling. There appear to be quite a few bits where things look much less fleshy, and have more of a clothlike look.
Nearby is Hungry Pete, rather confused, poking at the wall with his shield and making small depressions in it that correct themselves in a few moments. As soon as he notices THE DUNKER, he turns to face him, looking faintly concerned.
"It is worse than I thought, fellow pilgrim! Have you the DPS to solve this affront to good sense immediately, or should we look for its weak point first?"In the distance faint, deep sobbing can be heard.
* * * * *
Oh, where to begin, where to begin? Where should
Eta begin, indeed? More importantly, what should she omit for the good of all?
"Okay then. Doughnut man. What I know."
"I saw him in the doughnut store down the street, where I had gone to get something to eat. He sneakily followed me back here because he wanted my doughnuts. He started using magic, summoned some sort of glowing can. The guy in the reception got scared and got the doughnut guy to surrender. Then the receptionist got me to call another guy. They took all my doughnuts my breakfast to experiment with him because doughnuts caused some sort of magical thing to happen to him. And then they left, I think. I left too, at that time, got back to my room."
"When I came to the reception again, there were some strange noises coming from the back room, so I asked the receptionist if they needed any help. He said the doughnut guy was in there and that they were talking with him."
"After that I left, wandered the city for a bit. There were some... personal problems that prevented me from returning here, that's why I missed our meeting. Had to go to the police station, then to the hospital. Part of the reason I look like this."
"Later I met the doughnut guy in a bar, along with the girl that runs the doughnut store. Turns out she was the one that gave him magic through cocaine infused doughnuts apparently. Or so she said. I didn't like her very much. Very irresponsible person. By the end of the night she was overdosing in her own cocaine. Anyway, I stayed with him for a while. He used some spells for fun and to get some drinks and then he went off with a religious nut ninja wizard to search for 'power' and the 'fingers of god'."
"And after that, I got here. I think that's all."Little Tay nods.
"You know a lot of wizards," he states.
"How so?" He shakes his head moments after asking the question.
"No. Not important. Ignore question. Have names, maybe?"
Author
Topic: The Forgotten Art: Approaching the Nexus (Read 256035 times)