Catchism: Objects of Power.

Catchism: Objects of Power.

Postby catch » Sun Jun 23, 2013 5:38 pm

'"It is new, indeed, for I made it last night in a dream of strange cities; and dreams are older than brooding Tyre, or the contemplative Sphinx, or garden-girdled Babylon."

'

There is a sandalwood music box wherein a Unicorn dwells, silent and still until the tiny chimes of metal music throbs into it's limbs, causing it to shake, to quiver and dance, to stately turn again and again. It is a beautiful gift, nicer than a rooster, but it is a gift that twists in the gut, that brings sorrow to a throat and tears - tears that he musn't shed - to his eyes. He showed it to Miss Gloria, last night. Last night. He had slept -

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There was once a wizard of great learning and vast power. He could summon and speak to the elements at his will and pleasure. He could gather the stars from the sky as reagents in the most wonderful potions, or could strike his staff against the ground and raise the most vile dead to answer questions concerning life and death. He advised the elfin-Kings, and stood behind barbarian War-Kings in their councils, and it was rumored that it was he who lifted his hand and smote Lothaine to wasteland and ash. Wise was he in matters earthen and of the spirits.

He came, one day, into the possession of a singular item, an artifact, a wand drawn from the power-blasted clutches of the Mad Necromancer of Fane. He took this wand, carven from precious stone, for he sensed the power in it, and knew that this is what had driven the Necromancer to his madness. He thought himself the proper, rightful guardian, for was he not wise? He alone could make the magic to bind it, to bend it, to use it for his own will. A good will.

It was not good enough.

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There was once a man who knew everything. His libraries at Razasan were known the world over, and he wrote many books of his own, histories and satires and philosophical government that were praised, applauded. His was a mind far, far beyond his time. He sought new ideas for his mind to devour, for others to ponder, words to write upon a page for which future men could wonder. He came upon a book, sold by a crooked-backed merchant with a crooked cat, a book of black binding and red-edged pages, a book full of arcane scrawlings, pictograms, runes of ancient weld. It Gods-filled nonsense, but it was a glimpse into History, into the suspicious mind of men far removed from even the One, men who created demigods from fertile minds who were bent always to the spilling of blood, the howling of skulls.

They say, that night, that his libraries burned. They say one could still hear his maddened laughter in the ashes, where trees and flowers do not grow.

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There were once young men who had grown fat in the rich shadows of greater fathers, who had grown less in matters of the soul. Their boredom consumed them until they became maddened by it, seeking the occult, the macabre, turning to darkness to find what they could not in the light. They dabbled in their dark arts with the attitude of naughty boys. They reveled in the offense and fright of others. They gathered trophies both bizarre and grotesque. What was one more trophy? What was a sculpture of obsidian, of alabaster, of deepest, flawless garnet to these men, these boys, that so consumed them? None could say their fate, twisted masses of flesh, and one left to babble, to scream, to become like the mad things he had locked away for the amusement of his parched soul.

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He was at the Lake, but instead of an Eye, he held it, long and straight and curved, twisted, together, a horn, a horn-sword, narrowed at the base for the fitting of fingers, a glimmering weapon. But he saw not the weapon. He saw only the precious thing for what it was. He saw what made him Whole.
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