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 Posted: Tue May 30, 2017 6:06 pm
I got bored and, somehow, the idea came to me that perhaps I could write random snippets of our Kingdom's history. Because why not? It gave me something to do. And writing always makes me feel better during stressful times. So. Yes.
I'm starting from the plot of our failed role-play, found here. I'll update at random and/or as I find the inspiration. emotion_bigheart
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Posted: Tue May 30, 2017 6:09 pm
The Saga Begins – General Machia
It was a cold, dreary day when Machia learned of the Sycamorte’s plight. It had started ordinarily enough. He’d grazed. He’d danced as all Crias do: with wild abandon and unconstrained delight. There’d been more grazing because, well, all that dancing had worked up an appetite. That particular round of grazing had been followed by his daily blessing on the kin most in need of it at that time as indicated by that single clear ringing of the bell around his neck. It was on his way back from this that Machia first heard the rumor.
Everyone had heard in the past year of the brash Sycamorte mage, Mortimer, who had killed his predecessor and taken over as Lord Sycamorte. Likewise, everyone knew about the various kin of all shapes, elements, and eating habits who had gone rogue and attacked their neighbors, their friends, their families. Somehow no one had been brave enough to put the two together. At least, not out loud. Not until someone heard tell of how this new Lord Sycamorte had poisoned the food supply to induce this madness. When this didn’t work quickly enough to suit him, he sent out the Phantoms to cast a dark spell over the Wilds. This was, according to rumor, the cause of the Shadowed Night, that night when thousands of kin had suddenly risen from a sound slumber with blood red eyes and cold, savage hearts. Hundreds died and this… this was the reason.
Machia, who until then had been the usual happy, energetic, and carefree Cria, found himself rethinking his entire outlook on life. What good did a bell do, really, in the long run? Sure, the delightful sound might bring a moment’s joy but what did it really inspire? How was it helping this battle? Who was this bringing back from the abyss of insanity? No one. The answer hit him like a jolt to the heart. This foolishness, this frolicking, helped no one. He couldn’t keep going about his day as if nothing was wrong. Something was. Everything was. The people around him were dying, cursed by some monster-tree’s evil and forced into murdering those for whom they cared the most. Things had to change. But how?
So Machia sought out the wisest, most powerful creature in the Wilds, a Sakura Pegacorn Fluff named Jarogniew, and set about learning how to fight, how to command an army, and, hopefully, how to defeat the evil that now plagued his home.
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Posted: Sat Jul 01, 2017 7:43 pm
A Phoenix from the Ashes – the Lady
The Lady came to be in a single, clear moment and her rising, her awakening, was something that she would always associate with the cheerful ringing of a bell. She knew not where the sound came from, only that it shook her from her melancholy state. She’d lost so many friends and so many family members in the last year. It had been difficult. Owlattes as a whole were not given to deeper emotion. The typical Owlatte was a vain creature who thrived on flaunting his or her brilliant plumage, on inspiring envy in those with a less showy beauty. If one were to be honest, Owlattes were troublemakers. Not of the worst sort, no, but of the petty sort. Interpersonal squabbles amused them as little else did and admiration was a balm to their souls. Being that typical sort of Owlatte, these darker emotions— this sorrow, this deeply emotional pain, the ensuing rage—were new to this young female and she was ill-equipped to handle them.
But for that bell, she wasn’t sure how she would have handled things, how she would have moved into the increasingly bleak future. Yet that sound, that beautiful sound, jarred her as little else did. It revived her flagging spirits, sent joy whispering through her soul for a brief but life-changing moment. She’d felt the darkness moving in, that shadowed virus that had had her trying and failing to fight off fits of uncontrollable rage. That sweet ringing, though, had the sickness quickly retreating.
Without evening thinking about it, she found herself taking to the skies, flying purely for the joy of it as she hadn’t in months. It was dangerous to fly in the open air where anyone suffering from the shadow virus could hunt her down, it was dangerous to be free, and yet, at the same time, so right. The last bits of lingering fog cleared from her mind and she said to herself, “This. This is what we need. Freedom. Light. Joy.”
“And love. We need love. There needn’t be war. There needn’t be fighting or death or regrets or sorrow. There needn’t be… envy or vanity. But I think, I hope, that we can beat this with something else,” she added after considering her family, both the ones still there with her and the ones regrettably lost. Then almost as an afterthought, she whispered,” It doesn’t hurt to try, at least.”
And so this once petty Owlatte who would soon be known as the Lady set off to help her family, her friends, her neighbors, any and every stranger that she came across. She set off to become someone new, someone better, in the wake of the ashes of her former self. Most importantly, she set off to try. She wouldn’t give up. She wouldn’t lay down and admit defeat. She wouldn’t let Mortimer win because this, this place, was home and in honor of the bell that saved her soul, she couldn’t sit back and wait for someone else to save her.
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Posted: Sat Aug 26, 2017 12:23 pm
To Gather an Army – General Machia
It took three months of tough, soul-breaking training before Jarogniew declared Machia fit to fight, to lead. Three months in which hundreds more were lost either to madness or death. Machia considered each a personal failure... despite knowing that he'd had nothing to offer before, not path to safety nor skill to heal. Each marred his soul and bolstered his determination to win this war. Mortimer had taken too much already. Enough was enough.
And so Machia left the hallowed glen that remained untouched by darkness. He ventured out and sought those with a temperament best suited to his cause. At the moment, those were predominantly dark souls, kin whose bloodlust came not from an evil spell or a tainted source but, rather, their inborn sense of self. After all, few wanted to bite and claw and destroy the world like grunnies and fewer still desired to watch the world literally burn as Andrios did. They were all tough and vicious and, yes, borderline uncontrollable. But until he met with success, until he could encourage others to learn as he had, they were all the army that he could muster.
Thus they fought. They tore and rendered as necessary, trying to strip the forest of its Sycamortes as a tree does its leaves come winter. And when they came across the bloodstruck kin, they rarely showed mercy. The madness was unending. Death, therefore, was a mercy, not a murder. They spared lives where they could, encouraging the violently-driven, poisoned kin to fight with them and unleash their urges in that way. It worked less often than anyone would have liked but this? This was war. Unfortunate choices could lead to regret, of course, but those made in the heat of battle were choices made without time to second-guess or reevaluate. There was nothing to be done and so the growing army moved on.
Mortimer was waiting, after all. His tyranny needed to end. And yet, Machia hesitated. Maybe it was the years he'd spent with his sole purpose being to bring joy to people's lives. But warmongering didn't seem to be the way. It was the only potentially successful path that he could see, yet something felt off. Wrong. Dangerous. It was then that he heard of a strange Owlatte, an unnatural Owlatte, being hailed as "The Lady." She carried a message of peace, hope, and love, and somehow, against all odds, was having success.
Machia scoffed, previous doubts once again swept away. Love to defeat a mage? Poppycock. This Lady, then, was nothing but someone's deepest hopes and imaginings, little more than a dream designed to lift people's spirits. She wasn't real. She couldn't be.
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Posted: Fri Oct 06, 2017 1:18 pm
The Problem with Ascension -- the Lady
It had never been her plan to develop a following, to create a gathering place for those who sought a nonviolent end to this war with the most recent Lord Sycamorte. No. Even in her brightest, dreamiest moments, she hadn't gotten that far. Her plan had, since that one fateful flight, been to help and, yes, maybe even to inspire. She'd never even considered that she might one day lead. Honestly, she was an owlatte. Begin a group mockery? Sure. All in a day's work. That sort of leadership was one thing. (Mostly because it wasn't really leadership in the truest sense of things. It was one person being obnoxious and others following suit.) This? This was different. People were counting on her, utterly dependent on her for their well-being and safety and it was scary.
She'd promised to try, she'd promised not to let the darkness extinguish the light... but she was still scared and growing more so every day.
That doubt, however, wasn't going to stop her. So she set out each and every day to find the darkness, the death, the madness. Most days, it didn't take long. Hopelessness was all around and the infection clustered more closely than she would have preferred. First she sought out friends and neighbors. Kin that she knew, whose intimate details and history she could use to bring them back from the abyss. All it took was a few reminders, a heartfelt offering or a sincere request founded in mutual respect, trust, and friendship. It shouldn't have worked and yet it did. The shadows receded. Slowly, yes, but they went.
Later, she moved to kin with whom she was unfamiliar. They were difficult to reach. There was no common base, no shared past. Whenever possible, she brought in friends and family of the lost kin. She wouldn't risk their safety, no, and so they stayed far away. But she borrowed their memories and most cherished stories to draw these strange kin back into themselves. It worked. Sometimes, at least. Other days she ended up flying for her life. But in the spirit of her ascension, she tried not to focus on the days that she lost someone, on the days that she failed because, in spite of that failure, she had tried and she was beginning to make a difference, however small.
To her disbelief, this encouraged others to do the same. They tried. They tried to bring back their loved ones and, like her, met with some degree of success. It was their idea to band everyone together. For safety, they claimed. To learn, they said. If this was to be about hope, it would need to be a group effort and who better to lead this group than the beacon who'd inspired them all to merely try?
It was... baffling. And yet, here they were. But she didn't know how. How to lead, how to protect. She needed advice but who could she ask? Who could she trust?
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Posted: Mon Nov 13, 2017 9:53 pm
A Jumble of Thoughts (and a Butterfly) -- Pierro
Run, run, run. Wait. He didn't have legs. Right? He looked down. Right. No legs. So... float, float, float. Float far away. Float, float, float. Faster. Move faster now. More floating. More. Harder. Faster. Away. Must. Get. Away. He was miles gone now and yet still, he swore that he could feel the rasp of their dry leaves against his once vibrant jester's costume. The Sycamortes. He shuddered, the motion disrupting his floating pattern.
He still don't know how he'd escaped. It shouldn't have been possible. He'd been locked up for months, made to use his previously secret skills as a kin-mage to bolster Mortimer's own magic. This, this plague, this curse, this madness and bloodlust, it was his fault. All his fault. A breeze jangled his bells, the cheerful sound cutting through the still night air like Mortie's branches through tender flesh. He stopped mid-float, paused totally as if frozen. Was that a Sycamorte next to him? Dear Piyo. Please don't let it be a Sycamorte. Please don't let it be Mortimer.
Aw. Such a pretty butterfly! So bright and cheerful, so free. Wait. Freedom. That was the goal. Float away now, Pierro, float away.. Float, float, float. Keep thinking. Keep floating. He mumbled a goodbye to the butterfly-- Pierro might've been a clown, but his mother had always insisted that he mind his manners-- and floated on. What had he been thinking about? Couldn't remember. Didn't much matter. He had only one thought now: get far away and get help. Or maybe that was two thoughts? No. Two parts of one thought. A plan with two facets? Eh. Concentrate, Pierro, concentrate!
So he floated away, far away. There were distractions, of course. Bloodred, haunted eyes glowed in the dark, after all, and they truly exemplified what nightmares were made of for this poor, tortured clown. He floated, he flew, and away he went until he arrived at a surprisingly cheerful camp backlit by the rising sun. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed, his mind and body exhausted beyond measure, was the blurred edges of what he thought were brown feathers.
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Posted: Wed Jan 10, 2018 2:10 pm
It's Not an Invasion -- General Machia
Weeks had passed and Machia had continued to hear rumors of this disturbing, wildly unrealistic camp of "faith healers" and dreamers. His opinion of this so-called resistance dropped even lower with each passing comment. Stupid, to think that one could stop such evil with hope and love. Still, if this other group existed (and still he had a few private doubts), they were a threat. They were innocents, stupid innocents, and if they got in the way, he'd be forced to either protect or kill them. Neither was exactly a preferable outcome. With the one, he'd have to kill his own soldiers to stop them from harming these idiots... and with the other? Well, the blood of innocents stained one's paws more surely and more lastingly than anything else. Machia wanted to win this war, yes, but there were some lines that he couldn't cross. At least, not when he had time to think about it. It was another thing entirely in the midst of battle.
So he listened and, finally, he acted. Taking a few of his strongest warriors (and leaving the rest to either defend his own camp or move on the closest group of Sycamortes), he headed out to meet this figment of the forest-dwellers' imaginations. It was on his way there that he heard tell of a defector from the Sycamorte's side. Worse, a mage who'd worked directly under that blasted Mortimer. And that traitor? Well, wouldn't you know... he was currently under the protection of this so-called "Lady." They kept walking and he kept listening. This mage was a kin who'd supposedly been blackmailed and forced into working for the trees. Yeah. Right. He rolled his eyes.
He'd escaped, and only barely, using his wits and might. Again: yeah... right. (Clowns had never been much known in the kin-world for their bravery.) This smelled more like a trap or an information-gathering mission than anything else. Most horrifying was the casually murmured, "I heard that he's working with the Lady to develop an antidote for this bloodlust. His magic doesn't seem to be working quite right, though."
First off: no. No magic-user was going to further risk the kin in this forest with faulty magic. He'd be better off dead. It was for the best, for the safety of everyone. And second? Piyo, no. Trust a traitor, a spy, someone who'd worked with those dratted Sycamortes to destroy the peace of the forest and the sanity of the kin who resided there? No. It just couldn't be.
And so when Machia finally arrived at the brightly decorated, cheerful camp that stood out like a sore thumb and which was a sure invitation for an enemy to attack, seeing the bright glow of a magician's magic above what surely must be the stupidest aerling alive, he might have lost his temper. Just a little.
"What," he roared, "in all the kindred realms is going on here?"
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Posted: Fri Feb 16, 2018 2:07 pm
Aerlings Gone Wild -- the Lady
It had started out like any other day. She'd made sure that the camp had been fed, that spirits were high among her people, and that Pierro hadn't accidentally set his tent on fire (again) while attempting to use his magic to light a candle as he'd worked deep into the night. Clear on all fronts. Well, mostly. There was a small singe mark on the ground but nobody was actually hurt and nothing had been burned down. It was progress. Small progress, sure, but progress all the same.
Leadership was still hard but, over the course of the past few weeks, it had become less of a weight about her shoulders. Slightly less. It helped that no one actually expected her to make big decisions for people. Their camp was more of a democracy than a dictatorship. She could make a suggestion, she could try something, and kin were free to either join or step away from that activity. No pressure, no judgement, just a shared goal for peace in an equally shared space. That knowledge helped.
Surprisingly, just having Pierro there was the biggest help of all. Sure, he had issues. His night (and day) terrors regularly kept his neighbors awake and the screaming had, quite literally, everyone in the camp trying to learn which pitch was called what. Magically-speaking, he was extremely powerful but this power was easily and frequently hampered by his inability to focus. He had a nasty habit of humming far too catchy showtunes under his breath. All said and done, he wasn't a picnic.
And yet... she had help. Hope and love could only convert so many. She wasn't a fool-- she knew she had to try and she was going to do so in spite of the obstacles, but she knew that there were going to be times that she wouldn't succeed. But with Pierro? With a magic-user at her side? Maybe, just maybe, she'd stand a chance at finding a permanent cure.
So when a poor, distraught Aerling with the tinge of bloodlust red beginning to overtake his eyes came to her and asked for help, she brought Pierro with her to try his newest spell. He thought it might force the bloodlust back, helped in large part by someone keeping the patient calm and providing a tether to the world. Pierro began to cast his spell and she began to speak. This Aerling and his family had been in the camp for a while now. She'd gotten to know him and she reminded him of this. She told him about his family, spoke to him of a funny incident he'd come across (and caused) last week. Nonsense, most of it, but it kept him focused and with her while Pierro rhymed and chanted beside her. But then:
"What in all the kindred realms is going on here?" The roar shook the camp and suddenly heads were popping out of their tents, their nests, the trees... everywhere. Yet, somehow, things got worse. The Aerling roared back-- as much as an Aerling can, at any rate-- and charged this strange Machia who had dared to disrupt the sanctity of their home, the peace of their mission.
Uh-oh.
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