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Rated: 13+ · Campfire Creative · Appendix · Action/Adventure · #1954654
Its Epic, that's all you need to know
[Introduction]
Where do the stars sleep when the daylight comes around to drown them out? When they suffocate in the boundless flood that stretches from north to south and back again. Ever suffering under the abuse, so that the souls in skins can wander about, asking from time to time “are we the greatest martyrs?” Enough is known of them but rarely do they settle in these ends. While we ignorantly squander the time, perhaps we are justified in this act for our time ends and theirs is eternal. It is known only as this: balance is needed in the world, all things that begin must end.
Just as a wanderer, with dust in his throat and mud on his feet, comes to pass the great towers of the world, so too must he pass from these pages. So too must he pass across those moldered thresholds, down the leaky stairs and into the white sun’s furious gaze. So too as he passes into the sand colored buildings, box-like and obtuse. Reflecting back that furious glare of heaven so that the eyes are sore from its rage and its oddity; that same man with the gray rock-colored hair and the cracked lips and the long scarf that may have been a vibrant color once comes to a house of debauchery. That same man who twisted his way between the shouts and groans of the cantina floor, picking his feet up as he stepped over shattered souls who lay in their everlasting drunken splendor, like princes who must live in their father’s shadow. He took a seat and it creaked far too loud as he eased into it. The long whine seemed to pierce the mediocre atmosphere that hung there. A few bloodshot eyes looked up to glare but found it too great a deed and returned to their sullen beds. A man with a face like a badger came through, pushing past two women whispering black words to one another snickering and gossiping about everyone at once.
“Something ya need thar?” he scuffed, his voice almost as badger like as his appearance. He gave the stranger a once over with nervous eyes the same sort of eyes that he would put on when trouble walked in the door and bared its ugly teeth.
“Water…lot of it” the stranger retorted coughing as he did so. He had a weaker voice than his rough figure would suggest. It was enough to surprise the bartender. “Also, you got a latrine around here?” he said again, almost weaker than before. The man pointed to a shady corner in the back devoid of people.
“Back dan the hallway…try not d’lose yerself” the bartender choked. It was almost a sigh of relief but nothing obvious burned from his voice.
The stranger twisted out of his seat and glanced his way past more lost bodies. He turned the corner and flipped under the shadows of the crooked hallway. He pushed through the splintered door into the darkness that lay behind it. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with an ammonias scent that made him gag more than the dust. His eyes kept forward staring deeply into the blackness while his hand searched errantly for a switch. He found it and flipped it on. A whiff of ozone, the passing of a few sparks and a gas lamp overhead wheezed to life. There in the corner lay a broken figure, his limp body leaning in the vertex of the shattered walls amidst a pile of blankets and assorted scrap. When this odd degenerate’s eyes caught the dim light he shot up. The wanderer had an odd sense that this poor figure he had just stumbled upon was not a drunken fool like everyone else.
“Agaah, ahhh” he cried out trying, but ultimately failing to create coherent words. His cries began to mount in volume, attracting the attention of the other customers. The stranger stood there wondering what to do but he only stood with his hands out in front of him as if to catch him should he fall. The mad man looked down at himself, then back up the intruder, then down to himself again. As the poor fool was coming to terms with his surroundings he found an urge to gather his things and leave. He grabbed the great trundles of blankets, satchels and other obscured things littered about in the dim light of latrine.
“Ya’ gain?” the rough badger voice roared from the hallway. The barkeep waddled his way angrily into the stall pushing the weary traveler aside. “This ain’t yar keepin house, nah get on with ya!” he growled at the boy. His bloated hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and forced him through the door and back down the hallway. The boy scrambled frantically under his captor’s grip twisting this way and that, flailing like a hellish hurricane trying to keep his things together. A sense of irony pervaded that place as the boy tried viciously to hold all his belonging only to have them fall this way and that, clattering and clanking all the way to the cantina’s front door. The traveler was shocked, not moving a muscle… He could hear the shouts and screams of belligerent voices from beyond the hall. A deep thud followed. The traveler was curious, as are all travelers in some sense, and decided to dissect the situation with a few questions. He reentered the cantina, seeing no difference in it save the few miscellaneous items lying about the floor forming a comprehensible path to the front door. He followed it the way children follow the footprint of lost animals in fairy tales, naïve and pressed by an overwhelming sense of wonder.
The boy lay in the dust, his face turned up at the sky, his hand shielding his eyes from the wrath of the sun.

“Need a hand?” the traveler said

Moments later the two sat in the shade of torn awning, its gaping hole left its hanging remains baked in the bitter sun. The traveler leaned over with a canteen in his hand. He brushed the road's dust off the sides and handed it to the boy who was now eagerly wiping the streets grime off his arms. The slick soil that stuck to him was drying quickly in the meagerly sheltered air as the cold corpse-like soil condensed and turned into a caked layer of dust. The boy looked up from his work at the outstretched canteen. The traveler raised his eyebrows asking the boy a question he knew did not need answering. The boy quickly grabbed the canteen and tilted it up, letting the unknown liquid flow into his wanting mouth. He took a few swigs and winced.

"Bleecch, ughhh, what is that?" he whined with disgust. He handed it back all too willingly.

"Come on, a little posca never hurt nobody..." the traveler replied. His measured face contorting into a weak smile. He adjusted himself on the crate and took the bottle back, helping himself to a generous amount. "Ooohoo, that stuff will put the strength back in ya..." he laughed. "So what's this then, you aren't one of them drunken idiots, what are you doing in cantina stall with more gear than a fusilier?"

"I've had a bit of a rough time lately, needed a place to sleep is all" the boy said, still trying to cleanse his mouth of the vinegar-rich draft. "What's your tale then? you certainly aren't from around here, none of those impertinent hellions would ever think to avail a wretched individual such as me..." the boy seemed to sing, his words flowed like the notes of a practiced musicians as if each word were carefully selected from a lineup of millions.

"Not much to say really, came here from the East been looking for some people is all, not terribly interesting...but you my friend, you aren't from around here either...come on I can tell just by your clothes, what's your real story?"

"I'm terribly afraid it is a long one, if you wish auscultate the entire tale it may take some time..." the boy said somewhat arrogantly. "My name is Sesh by the way....and thanks for your succor by the way"

"Right well come on, I haven't spoken to a soul in five days and you seem to be more interesting than the entire lot of these folks put together, follow me I wanna hear this story of yours..." the traveler said, shifting to his feet. He leaned on his ruddy stave, looking expectantly down at the youth now named Sesh. He raised his eyebrows again, he was one of those people who preferred to communicate with expression rather than words. Sesh caught the man's eyes through his tangled locks of hair and after a reluctant moment of thought stood up to follow him.

"Right then, where shall this saga begin...."
Part I: By the Sea Beaten and Built –

I suppose Coras. The froth rolled with an angry turbulence that hadn’t been seen for ages. It did as we spoke for so many years before, and the Aius we knew had never led us astray. His words were law, godspeak, morsels of mystical providence. He was the first collector, the first great coiner, the gilded tongue. He who ordered the waters in the first days of the city by the sea beaten and built. With each syllable the shrapnel from each blow of the waves congealed and grew. The walls stood for his pact. Clans that for years had been bludgeoned by the swell finally took refuge behind the great foam walls. His words became the foundation of a society. By the time I lived he never appeared before the public, a spectral autocrat whose mercy and judgment kept the world from washing away. We instead received the words from the chief lexicographer, one of the 18 council members allowed in his chamber. Beneath him are the four of the committee to record and organize definitions and decide which are admitted to the Prime Lexicon. While not often as praised as other government functions, this has always been a deep root in our culture. Keep in mind, you, that words brought us to where we were! Everything we had accomplished had been because of Aius’ perspicacious locutions. But regardless, our little assemblage was great. I was admitted at such an early age due to my demonstration of devotion and interest; most of my time was divided between the archives and home as a child. Father left early, most say he went out looking for the end of the world, but that really is bothersome to go through, and mother was a bookbinder and parchment supplier. But the archives consumed me like nothing before. I spent hours dissecting affixes and rearranging palindromes just to be sure and occasionally checked if onomatopoeia were close enough to their assigned sounds. This led to a few minor altercations with the bibliognosts, as apparently firearms are not allowed within government buildings, even for research, which really doesn’t make sense. How else are we decide the validity of these words? I remember the face of Gavis when I walked in with that flintlock, its like he’d never seen a boy with a gun before. Needless to say my experiment stopped.
But this was of little concern to me, all too often they would smother my enthusiasm, but on this occasion it could not be overshadowed. I remember sitting at my escritoire amid a standing forest of books and documents. I had already finished my mornings work as was the usual routine and sat about susurrating to myself. Diploplia…noun, a blurring of vision which causes objects to appear doubled; Putsch…noun, an attempt made by a group or individual to overthrow the government; Inchoative…adjective, beginning or initial. My thought were interrupted by a disconsolate groan as the dark haired head of Vestar peeked up over my stack of Thesauruses.

“Morning already…and here I was thinking I could sleep through today…” he said in arrogant voice of contempt. He stopped before me and cocked his head to the side, giving me a rusty and obviously forced smile. “Sesh…my boy, done already, usually you don’t start mumbling to yourself till noonday, bit of a slow day is it?”, He pushed his hair back and walked off, not really waiting for a reply. His youthful hauteur disgusted the other keepers, but what do expect from a student of language who was forced into a job he cared nothing for? He had no respect for the words, no sense of approbation for this great books.

Ribald…adjective, boorish, coarse, or rude. My thoughts quickly passed from him though, as they usually do….

Gavis had returned from the council meeting, his withered arms just able to push the great wooden door aside as he entered the chamber. He wore a dark blue robe with auric trim, and a long narrow beard of lost strands of hair that seemed to knot their way down to his waste. He leaned blearily against the chamber door as if he had been drained of strength. He pinkish eyes look up from his faded brow.

“We-eell another council meeting has passed us brothers…” he wheezed, as his spindly legs inched moment by moment over to a nearby stool. When he was in range his legs gave out and he fell onto the chairs surface. He pushed himself up and the slight creak of his joints seemed to effortlessly echo throughout the hollow nooks of the room, drawing the concern of the others.

“How was it master? Surely another drubbing?” whined Mergan, whose own concern for Gavis was overshadowed by his envy.

“It was….” He paused in reply, as if to think of something truly clever “Dismal, abysmal, miasmal, infintismal, and cataclysmal…” he finished with a sigh. “Nothing inherently vexatious” he said. He looked about sullenly, I could tell his interest in all things was waning. “Mergan, Thallurn, Vestar, did you finish those etymological reports I asked you for?” he was met with little reply. It was typical, the others were either to weary of the job or took no interest to begin with, it was a truly monstrous thing. “Sesh, done already-“

“Of course!” he replied all to readily, as if my swift response could make up for the irreverence of the others. He nodded, but it was not a satisfied nod. He stood and came to my desk. Instauration…noun, practice of establishing something to replace something obsolete. He came pointed to a nearby shelf, on it were the old codified folk dictionaries, the ones I wasn’t allowed to open…something about reckless excitement…I don’t even remember, I find it hard to remember things like that. “You mean…I can…I can…” I looked on in bewilderment. He nodded his weary head.

“I was going to review them myself but I’m quite fatigued, go on I know you’ll get it done faster than anyone else on the coast anyhow”.

No sooner had he finished his sentence had I pulled the first volume off the shelf. I could hear him wince when I grabbed it. He was tired of many things, but he will always fear for his inestimable books. I took to flipping through page by page, I recognized almost every one as it flew down the margins. Dedargon- broken well, Flivven- aged to the point of breaking, Thaustle- to rake over or cover lightly. Simple. I went on for…well I don’t know how long… it doesn’t really matter though, time is irrelevant, it only becomes a factor after we’ve wasted enough of it. In time a voice broke the musty silence of my concentration.

“They are gathering in Foldram Square, they have pushed the Blue Shirts back to Boreas Boulevard.” The gruff voice seemed to enter in an arrogant presence like a fallen angel trying to get back into heaven. I looked up for half a second, not actually registering what the voice had said. I thought I heard some of the others join, a mingling that registered still nothing on my accent of interest. I returned and let those concerned gossip about, it surely had nothing to do with me anyhow. Dejevity- the faded appearance of a distant object through fog.

“They should have acted sooner…” , it disrupted my focus but I returned again. Esteve- a stock made from boiled roots. My mind hiked on for a few moments longer.

“When was last vote counted, surely they can be told of that…”

“No one would hear of it” their voices hung over me, tempting me away from my work. Galimaff- a stylized form of folk theater involving puppets. Suddenly a sharp twang echoed down the hall and through the lonely door frame. All head turned, all but mine.

“They wouldn’t come here?” I distinctly heard Vestar whine.

“Its not time to question just act, things are getting bad and they are getting bad fast, do what you will I must attend to his Regency’s hall, gentlemen” the voice trailed off with panic as it disappeared from the chamber’s reach.

“It must be done, do what you all may…” that was the last thing I heard before I saw it, the one thing, the only thing that had made my heart skip a beat since the day I first got to read from primary lexicon.

“Come, this unrest will end…just as it has times before…”

“No this time things are different, its…its not as it was when Aius was seen, if we cou-“

“SIR!...I….I found something….” And in that moment my childish heart had burned through the ether of my surroundings.

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