Razmatazz
- - - - - -
Apple, Kobo, Barnes and Nobles and other platforms here!
| Where does one begin to untangle the knot of time? What do we know? What do we think that we know? And are these things even the truth? I can not say. We look back at the history of our world and see clear definitions written in the lines of the books we were taught as children and in the books that we ourselves now teach our own children. But, in truth, how do you know that what is in the books is not ‘correct’, but rather, true? History is written by the winners, after all. Generation after generation, this information will continue to be passed down and held as the undeniable truth. Good won. Evil lost. How could it be any other way? Just look at the history books. It says so right there. - Or? I tell you, look outside. Look out of your window and stare at the wretches that hobble down the street. Stare at the hungering children that howl in the alleys at night. Stare at the frothing men and women, eating each other alive to make some more money. Stare at them and tell me that good really triumphed over evil, as it is written in the books. No. If you ask me, we did not defeat the Demon-King. We say that we did. We write that we did, and we teach this to our children, as it was taught to us — by the books. But when you look outside at the world, can you really, in your deepest heart, say that good has truly triumphed? Can you say that the world is as it ought to be? If so, I disagree. We live in the age of demons, but we are simply naive to such matters. We don’t have the capacity to see with clear, unfiltered eyes. Written history in its entirety is nothing but an almanac of generational propaganda, written by those who had won the most and now wish to continue doing so. Don’t believe the books. |
~ Writings of an former member of the Holy-Church, excommunicated for radicalism
Filth.
In the dredges of every season, there is filth to be found. In spring, the heavy rains that nourish the rebirthing spectrum of life also cause thick sloughs of mud.
In summer, the scorching heat causes dry, brittle dust to fly and fill the air, together with swarming insects.
In autumn, the death and decay of many things coming to the end of their journey fall to the floors of the forests and rot.
In winter, slush and ice coat everything that they touch.
However, these things bring with them a boon. They are not without purpose and intent. There is clear, logical, natural, and beautiful reasoning behind all of these phenomena.
Filth exists, but it does so for the same reason as does the concept of purity, as does water, soil, and air. ‘Filth’, as a term, is simply a combination of these things in some manner, usually in a place that is unwanted by a creature that perceives itself to be smart enough to care about such things.
— But this.
This is without reason. There is no explanation in the natural world for a construct of terror like this.
To end a life and to consume it, this is a natural thing that is not to be interfered with. But to steal a life, to prevent it from cherishing the gift that the seasons have to give, for no reason other than baseless cruelty – this is something that can not be forgiven. It is unholy.
Caeli, the battle-alchemist nods, grabbing a small potion and pouring it into the creature’s unsewn mouth. It hadn’t spoken or screamed or said anything, really. The dryad simply remains catatonic.
— Where does one even begin?
| (Dryad) has consumed: (High)[Potion of Deep Sleep] |
The lights behind her eyes do not go out, as they have already long since vanished. But her lids do close.
“Want me to do it?” asks Rorate, standing on the other side of the table. “My sub-class is ‘field-medic’. I’m not really trained for anything like this, but… I don’t get squeamish.” The dark-elf lowers her gaze, looking down at the jumbled knot of bones that need to be violently broken and tied limbs that need to come undone.
“No,” says Isaiah. “This is the result of my own doing,” says the entity, looking at the thing before itself.
— It had let Witch Perchta go after her assault. It had decided to take the kind path in the hopes that this rift of theirs, between the tower and her, could be solved through ways of peace.
It was a mistake, once again.
Isaiah can not help but wonder if it is simply doomed to repeat such catastrophic mistakes over and over again. This is like the ascension. The suffering of this creature lies in the direct actions of Perchta; however, it itself is the force that had driven her to movement, and it is the force that had failed to pursue her in a meaningful way.
Isaiah grabs the first bone, getting ready to break it.
This time, it has once again learned a painful lesson. Mercy is a graceful thing that should be bestowed on many crying souls.
But some people, some creatures, are beyond it and the most pure, holy thing that there is to do in this world is to simply remove their blemishing presences from it. One death to cease this grand carnal suffering so many others.
– Isaiah crushes the first brittle fingers.
It will be a long process of breaking, untangling, and healing what there is to be healed.
Production of new floors on the tower has ceased entirely.
Isaiah does not care.
The repair of damaged structures has been neglected, but Isaiah also does not care. Food must be prepared by the denizens of the tower themselves in the kitchens, rather than being cooked by Red, who is busy on the hunt. Materials for any small tasks must be collected and carried up many, many flights of stairs by tired legs.
But the highest priority now is to find the witch. The uthra have this as their sole task, and it itself can do little to help, as it is bound to the territory. So instead, it alleviates the uthra by fulfilling these prior tasks whenever it can.
They are at a turning point. Isaiah can feel it.
Between the witch and the soldiers, the tower is falling under immense pressure. Fate is conspiring to bring some grand happening to its door.
It will not allow anything to happen to its people – its children. It has so many failings already, but these will not be one of them.
The witch will be found and brought to justice, and the soldiers of the human army will be repelled gracefully.
There is simply no other alternative.
| ~ [Grob] ~ |
| Goblin, Male, Scout |
| Location: The edge of the island, by the Grand Ascent |
He crawls down through the forest.
It’s been days.
It was hard, not only getting out of the tower after the red creature gave him the coin to escape the island but also just getting to a place where he could use it. He had to escape the tower, sneak out past hundreds of humans, who were sitting outside, armed to the teeth day and night. He had to run down the island, which is full of them and of many hungry, gnashing creatures and odd, dangerous plants that tried to eat him. But he finally made it to the grand staircase.
– It was a shock at first, of course.
He had no idea that… That this had happened to the world. This island, their entire forest has been sundered. The wood-mother’s heart must be as broken as is the pride of his tribe at their many crushing defeats at the hand of the white tower.
The goblin stands there, feeling the air rush through his hair as he stares at the world with an impossible fear in his heart as he looks around himself. No goblin has ever been this high up before. No goblin has ever climbed to a peak such as this, and here he is.
His eyes wander back in fear towards the tower that crests far higher into the sky than he recalls, during his entrance, when it was just a simple ruin that they had believed to be a human outpost in their forest – an incursion into holy land.
The sight of it, just like the sight of the distant, far reaching lands below himself, fills him with fear.
He looks down at the coin in his hand, ready to leave, ready to return to his people after weeks of being separated from them.
Grob squeezes the coin, hoping that it works and hoping that he even has a home left to return to down below.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Today is the day of rest.
But there will be no handing out of trinkets and baubles.
Isaiah stands at the edge of the tower, staring down towards the band of humans that have begun living there. The first man, a dwarf, who is believed to be a merchant of sorts, has even begun building a small house.
— They will rest.
There is no debate to be had here.
| (Isaiah) has: Deactivated [Mercy] |
| ~ [QUEST] ~ |
| 'The Day of Rest' |
| Time Remaining: 21:59:46 |
| Difficulty: Extremely Easy |
| Today is declared to be a day of rest for everyone. Sleep. Eat. Bathe. |
| Quest Goal: [Mercy] has been deactivated for the day. Do not make any foolish choices. |
| Quest reward: Life |
It stares down at the ground, watching as the quest appears before the proclaiming statue and people down below begin to gather around it.
| ~ [Rorate] ~ |
| Dark-Elf, Female, Fighter |
| ~ [Dryad] ~ | |
| Class: Monster (Non-Aggressive) | Element: NATURE |
| Type: Caretaker | Category: Hominid |
| Rank: B+ | |
| Level: 57 | |
| Extremely loving and gentle entities, dryads are an advanced form of NATURE spirit that has been granted a physical body, in order to tend to the forests and natural places of the world. They act as keepers of these regions and spend their days dutifully tending to plants and animals in order to help their home region thrive. Dryads are territorial in a sense and will often compete with one another. However, this contest is not one of physical strength or violence. Rather, they will do their best to tend to their sections of the forest. At the end of the contest, whoever has the healthiest and most beautiful forest wins the duel, the reward of which is often a token prize such as a beautiful stone or a rare flower. Dryads have been known to attack loggers, miners and hunters. However, they have never attacked a traveler. It is common for Dryads to engage in a cooperative symbiosis with forest-dwelling creatures, such as goblins. | |
| HP: 63/63 | SOUL: 170/170 |
| [Self-Regeneration]{Passive}: Dryad’s own bodies are extremely in tune with themselves to a degree far above that of most monsters. This allows for a constant self-regeneration of physical damage, as well as HEALTH-POINTS. | |
| [Summon Animal]{Active}: The dryad can summon a random animal of a level equal to its own to aid it in combat. | |
| [Ivy]{Toggle}: The dryad can manifest several lashing tendrils of poisonous ivy or brambles, in order to fight off intruders or to manipulate distant objects. |
Rorate wipes her forehead off, looking down at the creature. Today was supposed to be her weekly sermon, actually. But she’s busy here.
The dark-elf grabs a clean cloth from the basin.
The door opens to the side. A face looks in. The monk.
“Oh, hey,” says Rorate.
“It’s time,” replies the monk, stepping inside. She nods her head to the door. “Go.”
Rorate shakes her head. “I can’t. I want to stay here.”
The monk doesn’t bother replying. She nods her head to the door and takes the damp rag from Rorate’s hand.
“— Are you sure?” asks the dark-elf.
The monk doesn’t reply, simply setting to the task of wiping the dryad down. It’s hard to say whether the healing, if the butchery that it was can be called that, was successful. She stops, feeling Rorate still watching her, and then turns back to the dryad.
“I was never sent to fight a witch,” says the monk.
Rorate tilts her head, playing with the tip of one of her own long ears. “…Huh?”
“Back when I was with my prior community, I was never sent off to fight a witch, or something so dark,” repeats the monk, wringing out the cloth over a bowl. “Why not?”
Rorate shrugs. “I mean… I guess that’s not the job of an inspection-team?”
“Then whose is it?” asks the monk. Rorate shakes her head, not having an answer. “I was only ever sent to fight dungeons. There are other things in this world that need to be fought by someone too.” The monk continues with her work. “I’m strong. Who else, if not me?” The beads on her arms rattle. “- Go.”
“Are you really sure?” asks Rorate, uncertain.
The monk looks her way. “— Who, if not you?”
Rorate looks at her and then at the dryad and then nods, grabbing her half-written gospel from the table. There are blood-stains on it.
This gives her a great idea for tomorrow’s section of her writing.
| ~ [Anderwal] ~ |
| Human, Male, Scholar |
They’ve been called.
It’s time. Finally.
He’s always kept the faith. He never lost hope that this day would come again. Every day he prayed, studied, and prepared for this moment.
Anderwal checks the maps that are strewn over the table one more time, his hands running across them as the men around him collect their things together, slinging bags over their shoulders.
“How long has it been?” asks Anderwal, sighing in quiet relief.
His finger lands on the southern region of the world, on the core city down there.
“A while,” replies his colleague, placing a hand on his shoulder. Anderwal looks at his kin in spirit. The man nods his head. “Come, brother Anderwal. It’s time for our pilgrimage to begin anew. The world is heavier than ever.”
“I’ve been waiting for this day,” says Anderwal.
“I know. We all have,” replies his friend as everyone collects by the door. A few odd dozen men and women, all carrying large rucksacks full of equipment for a long journey on foot, stand there, ready.
Anderwal looks around the library they’ve made over the years and then nods, knowing what has to be done before they leave. Nobody can find this old place. There are too many secrets, and they’re not coming back here.
He picks up the old map and rolls it together. “I serve,” says Anderwal. He holds the map over a candle, setting it on fire. The flames eat away at the paper, creeping and crawling towards his fingers.
“We all do, Anderwal,” replies his friend. “We all do.”
Anderwal shoves the burning map into a shelf, full of old books that immediately begin to smolder.
The library begins to be engulfed in flames as the members of the Witches’ Sect in the far northern region of the world depart, ready to make their way to the southern city, to where they’ve been summoned after years of silence after the witch-hunts.
Razmatazz
- - - - - -
Apple, Kobo, Barnes and Nobles and other platforms here!
| Where does one begin to untangle the knot of time? What do we know? What do we think that we know? And are these things even the truth? I can not say. We look back at the history of our world and see clear definitions written in the lines of the books we were taught as children and in the books that we ourselves now teach our own children. But, in truth, how do you know that what is in the books is not ‘correct’, but rather, true? History is written by the winners, after all. Generation after generation, this information will continue to be passed down and held as the undeniable truth. Good won. Evil lost. How could it be any other way? Just look at the history books. It says so right there. - Or? I tell you, look outside. Look out of your window and stare at the wretches that hobble down the street. Stare at the hungering children that howl in the alleys at night. Stare at the frothing men and women, eating each other alive to make some more money. Stare at them and tell me that good really triumphed over evil, as it is written in the books. No. If you ask me, we did not defeat the Demon-King. We say that we did. We write that we did, and we teach this to our children, as it was taught to us — by the books. But when you look outside at the world, can you really, in your deepest heart, say that good has truly triumphed? Can you say that the world is as it ought to be? If so, I disagree. We live in the age of demons, but we are simply naive to such matters. We don’t have the capacity to see with clear, unfiltered eyes. Written history in its entirety is nothing but an almanac of generational propaganda, written by those who had won the most and now wish to continue doing so. Don’t believe the books. |
~ Writings of an former member of the Holy-Church, excommunicated for radicalism
Filth.
In the dredges of every season, there is filth to be found. In spring, the heavy rains that nourish the rebirthing spectrum of life also cause thick sloughs of mud.
In summer, the scorching heat causes dry, brittle dust to fly and fill the air, together with swarming insects.
In autumn, the death and decay of many things coming to the end of their journey fall to the floors of the forests and rot.
In winter, slush and ice coat everything that they touch.
However, these things bring with them a boon. They are not without purpose and intent. There is clear, logical, natural, and beautiful reasoning behind all of these phenomena.
Filth exists, but it does so for the same reason as does the concept of purity, as does water, soil, and air. ‘Filth’, as a term, is simply a combination of these things in some manner, usually in a place that is unwanted by a creature that perceives itself to be smart enough to care about such things.
— But this.
This is without reason. There is no explanation in the natural world for a construct of terror like this.
To end a life and to consume it, this is a natural thing that is not to be interfered with. But to steal a life, to prevent it from cherishing the gift that the seasons have to give, for no reason other than baseless cruelty – this is something that can not be forgiven. It is unholy.
Caeli, the battle-alchemist nods, grabbing a small potion and pouring it into the creature’s unsewn mouth. It hadn’t spoken or screamed or said anything, really. The dryad simply remains catatonic.
— Where does one even begin?
| (Dryad) has consumed: (High)[Potion of Deep Sleep] |
The lights behind her eyes do not go out, as they have already long since vanished. But her lids do close.
“Want me to do it?” asks Rorate, standing on the other side of the table. “My sub-class is ‘field-medic’. I’m not really trained for anything like this, but… I don’t get squeamish.” The dark-elf lowers her gaze, looking down at the jumbled knot of bones that need to be violently broken and tied limbs that need to come undone.
“No,” says Isaiah. “This is the result of my own doing,” says the entity, looking at the thing before itself.
— It had let Witch Perchta go after her assault. It had decided to take the kind path in the hopes that this rift of theirs, between the tower and her, could be solved through ways of peace.
It was a mistake, once again.
Isaiah can not help but wonder if it is simply doomed to repeat such catastrophic mistakes over and over again. This is like the ascension. The suffering of this creature lies in the direct actions of Perchta; however, it itself is the force that had driven her to movement, and it is the force that had failed to pursue her in a meaningful way.
Isaiah grabs the first bone, getting ready to break it.
This time, it has once again learned a painful lesson. Mercy is a graceful thing that should be bestowed on many crying souls.
But some people, some creatures, are beyond it and the most pure, holy thing that there is to do in this world is to simply remove their blemishing presences from it. One death to cease this grand carnal suffering so many others.
– Isaiah crushes the first brittle fingers.
It will be a long process of breaking, untangling, and healing what there is to be healed.
Production of new floors on the tower has ceased entirely.
Isaiah does not care.
The repair of damaged structures has been neglected, but Isaiah also does not care. Food must be prepared by the denizens of the tower themselves in the kitchens, rather than being cooked by Red, who is busy on the hunt. Materials for any small tasks must be collected and carried up many, many flights of stairs by tired legs.
But the highest priority now is to find the witch. The uthra have this as their sole task, and it itself can do little to help, as it is bound to the territory. So instead, it alleviates the uthra by fulfilling these prior tasks whenever it can.
They are at a turning point. Isaiah can feel it.
Between the witch and the soldiers, the tower is falling under immense pressure. Fate is conspiring to bring some grand happening to its door.
It will not allow anything to happen to its people – its children. It has so many failings already, but these will not be one of them.
The witch will be found and brought to justice, and the soldiers of the human army will be repelled gracefully.
There is simply no other alternative.
| ~ [Grob] ~ |
| Goblin, Male, Scout |
| Location: The edge of the island, by the Grand Ascent |
He crawls down through the forest.
It’s been days.
It was hard, not only getting out of the tower after the red creature gave him the coin to escape the island but also just getting to a place where he could use it. He had to escape the tower, sneak out past hundreds of humans, who were sitting outside, armed to the teeth day and night. He had to run down the island, which is full of them and of many hungry, gnashing creatures and odd, dangerous plants that tried to eat him. But he finally made it to the grand staircase.
– It was a shock at first, of course.
He had no idea that… That this had happened to the world. This island, their entire forest has been sundered. The wood-mother’s heart must be as broken as is the pride of his tribe at their many crushing defeats at the hand of the white tower.
The goblin stands there, feeling the air rush through his hair as he stares at the world with an impossible fear in his heart as he looks around himself. No goblin has ever been this high up before. No goblin has ever climbed to a peak such as this, and here he is.
His eyes wander back in fear towards the tower that crests far higher into the sky than he recalls, during his entrance, when it was just a simple ruin that they had believed to be a human outpost in their forest – an incursion into holy land.
The sight of it, just like the sight of the distant, far reaching lands below himself, fills him with fear.
He looks down at the coin in his hand, ready to leave, ready to return to his people after weeks of being separated from them.
Grob squeezes the coin, hoping that it works and hoping that he even has a home left to return to down below.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Today is the day of rest.
But there will be no handing out of trinkets and baubles.
Isaiah stands at the edge of the tower, staring down towards the band of humans that have begun living there. The first man, a dwarf, who is believed to be a merchant of sorts, has even begun building a small house.
— They will rest.
There is no debate to be had here.
| (Isaiah) has: Deactivated [Mercy] |
| ~ [QUEST] ~ |
| 'The Day of Rest' |
| Time Remaining: 21:59:46 |
| Difficulty: Extremely Easy |
| Today is declared to be a day of rest for everyone. Sleep. Eat. Bathe. |
| Quest Goal: [Mercy] has been deactivated for the day. Do not make any foolish choices. |
| Quest reward: Life |
It stares down at the ground, watching as the quest appears before the proclaiming statue and people down below begin to gather around it.
| ~ [Rorate] ~ |
| Dark-Elf, Female, Fighter |
| ~ [Dryad] ~ | |
| Class: Monster (Non-Aggressive) | Element: NATURE |
| Type: Caretaker | Category: Hominid |
| Rank: B+ | |
| Level: 57 | |
| Extremely loving and gentle entities, dryads are an advanced form of NATURE spirit that has been granted a physical body, in order to tend to the forests and natural places of the world. They act as keepers of these regions and spend their days dutifully tending to plants and animals in order to help their home region thrive. Dryads are territorial in a sense and will often compete with one another. However, this contest is not one of physical strength or violence. Rather, they will do their best to tend to their sections of the forest. At the end of the contest, whoever has the healthiest and most beautiful forest wins the duel, the reward of which is often a token prize such as a beautiful stone or a rare flower. Dryads have been known to attack loggers, miners and hunters. However, they have never attacked a traveler. It is common for Dryads to engage in a cooperative symbiosis with forest-dwelling creatures, such as goblins. | |
| HP: 63/63 | SOUL: 170/170 |
| [Self-Regeneration]{Passive}: Dryad’s own bodies are extremely in tune with themselves to a degree far above that of most monsters. This allows for a constant self-regeneration of physical damage, as well as HEALTH-POINTS. | |
| [Summon Animal]{Active}: The dryad can summon a random animal of a level equal to its own to aid it in combat. | |
| [Ivy]{Toggle}: The dryad can manifest several lashing tendrils of poisonous ivy or brambles, in order to fight off intruders or to manipulate distant objects. |
Rorate wipes her forehead off, looking down at the creature. Today was supposed to be her weekly sermon, actually. But she’s busy here.
The dark-elf grabs a clean cloth from the basin.
The door opens to the side. A face looks in. The monk.
“Oh, hey,” says Rorate.
“It’s time,” replies the monk, stepping inside. She nods her head to the door. “Go.”
Rorate shakes her head. “I can’t. I want to stay here.”
The monk doesn’t bother replying. She nods her head to the door and takes the damp rag from Rorate’s hand.
“— Are you sure?” asks the dark-elf.
The monk doesn’t reply, simply setting to the task of wiping the dryad down. It’s hard to say whether the healing, if the butchery that it was can be called that, was successful. She stops, feeling Rorate still watching her, and then turns back to the dryad.
“I was never sent to fight a witch,” says the monk.
Rorate tilts her head, playing with the tip of one of her own long ears. “…Huh?”
“Back when I was with my prior community, I was never sent off to fight a witch, or something so dark,” repeats the monk, wringing out the cloth over a bowl. “Why not?”
Rorate shrugs. “I mean… I guess that’s not the job of an inspection-team?”
“Then whose is it?” asks the monk. Rorate shakes her head, not having an answer. “I was only ever sent to fight dungeons. There are other things in this world that need to be fought by someone too.” The monk continues with her work. “I’m strong. Who else, if not me?” The beads on her arms rattle. “- Go.”
“Are you really sure?” asks Rorate, uncertain.
The monk looks her way. “— Who, if not you?”
Rorate looks at her and then at the dryad and then nods, grabbing her half-written gospel from the table. There are blood-stains on it.
This gives her a great idea for tomorrow’s section of her writing.
| ~ [Anderwal] ~ |
| Human, Male, Scholar |
They’ve been called.
It’s time. Finally.
He’s always kept the faith. He never lost hope that this day would come again. Every day he prayed, studied, and prepared for this moment.
Anderwal checks the maps that are strewn over the table one more time, his hands running across them as the men around him collect their things together, slinging bags over their shoulders.
“How long has it been?” asks Anderwal, sighing in quiet relief.
His finger lands on the southern region of the world, on the core city down there.
“A while,” replies his colleague, placing a hand on his shoulder. Anderwal looks at his kin in spirit. The man nods his head. “Come, brother Anderwal. It’s time for our pilgrimage to begin anew. The world is heavier than ever.”
“I’ve been waiting for this day,” says Anderwal.
“I know. We all have,” replies his friend as everyone collects by the door. A few odd dozen men and women, all carrying large rucksacks full of equipment for a long journey on foot, stand there, ready.
Anderwal looks around the library they’ve made over the years and then nods, knowing what has to be done before they leave. Nobody can find this old place. There are too many secrets, and they’re not coming back here.
He picks up the old map and rolls it together. “I serve,” says Anderwal. He holds the map over a candle, setting it on fire. The flames eat away at the paper, creeping and crawling towards his fingers.
“We all do, Anderwal,” replies his friend. “We all do.”
Anderwal shoves the burning map into a shelf, full of old books that immediately begin to smolder.
The library begins to be engulfed in flames as the members of the Witches’ Sect in the far northern region of the world depart, ready to make their way to the southern city, to where they’ve been summoned after years of silence after the witch-hunts.
