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The first few chapters of a strange book I've almost finished, The FallofSeasons.Critique.
The Fall of Seasons

A Four Act Novel

And Book 1 of Dreams and Destiny

Act 1: Spring

By R. G. Weldon

WARNING and Notes from the REAL AUTHOR: “This book will probably offend you at one point or another. Suck it up; it’s just a book; some art, toilet material, whatever you’ll call it. . . Don’t take what other people say so seriously; for weelz, jk”

The Origin of the Multiverse;

The Release of Trillions

In the beginning there were too inexplicable beings; nameless and infinite, everything.

We will call them, for the sake of reality, Yin and Yang, or Good and Evil, the devil and the god, interchangeably.

Of course, by good or evil I do not mean anything negative or positive; just titles; two half’s of an undying consciousness.

Evil said to Good, “please don’t get mad, but I feel like a change.”

“How do you mean?,” asked Good.

“Let’s release the mist, just once. All of it. Let the people go free.”

“The Adam and Eve? The meta-consciousness? Let them think?”


“I will think.” God decided.

Ninety-nine trillion years later:

“Let us do it; just once.”

“Okay, then let’s make this more interesting,” the clever one quipped.

“How do you mean?” God intervened.

“Let’s have a test, since we will have only this once. Let’s see who will be right and wrong.”

They took the devil’s glare and dared back thrice-fold.

“I understand what you mean, my malevolent friend; the ultimate question; who triumphs, good, or evil?”

They set the terms, guided the stage, opened portals, shrunk themselves to nothing.

The binds on reality rattled round, battering shields and breaking sound.

Sent aloof and shattered west,

East, south and northern winds, bending out across the continuum.

They opened the greatest gate; the opposite side of the eternal minds.

It took some time.

Eons later. . . In the era of mortal gods:

The souls of Trillions began to ponder of themselves, “I am awake?” “I am alive?” “I ask myself, what do I do; to make life worthwhile?”

The souls of demons schemed, “we will break lines, code, and rank; overthrow our devil master, and god as well.”

The souls of angels thought “. . . My god, the one above us, I will know that we will have won because I will not be dead when all is said and done.”

The devil mused, “let us play, my little friends, battle and writhe in the agony of survival; I will pull no cards; you will do that by yourselves.”

And finally, God smiled. “Let them play; all of them. He will come, my savior of light. Forbid their gossip, crush their names. For another has seen all, and I know, if only this, that it is good.”

The savior laughed. For who could displace the god of gods; the soul of the multiverse; the heart of creation?

Only the soldier, who had never been born. . .


A four act Novel

And a parody of “high” art

Book One: Spring


The Birth of a New Order


         The council of Mankind sat poised for session, late at night on the 16th of March, 717. It was the epitome and ultimate rule of our world; this united kingdom, world government, under our universe’s God, Agarosh the Greater;

         The large and round drunk emperor of the Great Eastern Continent and Tamen; the distinctive and devilishly mustached Prince of Vardineel; the beautiful Twin Sheep Princesses of the South Island; the “Victorious Five” generals of the United Army; and the great warrior Fredrick Trey; all and only the most influential men and women alive were present for this most important meeting.

         Except for two.

The first of the missing councilmen was a fellow called Ross Trey, Fredrick’s brother. Ross was widely considered, without exception, the strongest and most God-blessed warrior in the world. This man’s appointment in rank was low, but his fame was as recognizable as the Cardinal’s own; having saved thousands of lives and having played an indispensable role in ending the Setinese rebellion eight years past.

However, this Ross Trey had been deployed to aid in the war against the independent West Island nations. Thus, his excuse was valid for not appearing, and his absence was forgiven.

         As for the second missing councilman . . .

         At the head of the famous table of God Wood- in the decorated chair reserved for only the living embodiment of Agarosh the Lesser himself- the aging head of the Church sat; fuming and distressed; disgruntled and worn.

He was known lovingly by the god-fearing world as The Senior Cardinal Duke Chancellor Greystone. And though, admittedly, his title may have been of near comedic length, there was nothing funny about how his dire condition. The holy man rest in what appeared to be his final hours, and it most certainly showed.

         In his dying, croaking breath, he cried, “Where is Herald, that swine! I’ll have his head!”

         Referring, of course, to the now infamous man known as Herald Derivatives, President of the Middle Continent and Country of Setinal, the old man could barely contain his anger- or his consciousness, for that matter. A distant glare gleamed in one eye. The other was permanently shut and twitched from a stroke he’d suffered just earlier that week. On top of that, his whole face squirmed and his beard wiggled in excitement. He was not a pretty sight.

         “I’m sorry, your holiness,” a close advisor sputtered, coming up from the side. “Details are just arriving that he has refused to come yet again.”

         “I’ll kill him!” Greystone spat.

The leader of the world was not usually this aggressive in the least, but was in fact enduring an incredible amount of pain and anguish. On top of the strokes he’d been suffering of late, he was dying of a cancer that had long been growing in his prostate. The doctors spoke of him having not much time to live.

         No one present dared utter a phrase beneath the roof of the moon lit chapel; a dim light glared in on the council from stain glass windows, enunciating the pained expressions of the men and women present. It seemed like the church leader was suddenly a different man- delusional and crude. Even for the top leaders of the free world, this was an upsetting sight.

But even as the glorifying images presented the sacred story of His son above in the colorful frames and statues, such a variation of the truth corrupted the minds of those present.

         However, one would never have guessed the blasphemous thoughts permitted within the senators’ heads. The fore-mentioned gleam of sub-atomic particles permeated a kind serenity on the refined faces of the politicians; the style of falsity so grand that only one in the diplomatic profession could mimic so well.

         Still the fact remained that to a certain extent, the whole council, and the whole world, feared the dying, weak man at the end of the table. Aside from having once been a renowned Hero, Greystone was influential to the point of being a dictator. In fact, his wrinkled fingers reached far beyond the edge of the table he clawed in his wavering fight for energy and life. 


Forty years ago, Greystone had done the impossible; or rather, it should be said that the impossible was accomplished under his watch.

         At the time, the world had been defiled and ruined by the second Great War. Vardinal and South Continent, verses Tamen and Setinal- with mercenaries on both sides enlisted from the Western Islands. It was an endless battle between both ethnicities and ideals that had erupted and splattered the earth in torment. There had appeared to be no end in sight.

         Perhaps it was a miracle then, that simultaneously Alberto Stein was producing groundbreaking results on particle physics. Generally in the past, the church had ridiculed such research, but in desperation for world unity Greystone took a chance.

         Taking the world by surprise, the cardinal had spoken publically of his interest in what many then called fringe science. He was critiqued from all sides for being inconsistent in his policies.

         But Greystone had a plan that changed the world forever. Rounding up Alberto and all the other top scientists in the field at the time, Greystone produced the money for advanced research on the “magical” properties of Heroes- men and women blessed with extreme luck and agility by the gods.

         Although there were many setbacks along the way, the end result was both catastrophic and amazing. They discovered a hidden sub-atomic particle within the minds of the supposed “blessed” men and women that enabled their special abilities. In other words, there was suddenly a powerful truth behind the stories of the scriptures.

         With this evidence, Greystone hastily took to convincing the world that they had found “conclusive” scientific evidence that the Traditionalist religion’s gods existed.

And with this, the church had become the authority on not just religion, but science and earthly knowledge as well.

         Under the pretense of this historic event, Greystone was able to silence critics and garner enough enthusiasm to hold the world’s first world council between the then warring nations.

         “We are one people, fighting under one set of proven god’s,” he was reported as saying. “Let us make peace, and forever banish the name of war between us united people, under Agarosh.”

         But that had all happened a long time ago, before any of the people present were in office. To these “young” leaders of the world, that was a story they had read so many times that it had entered the land of myth; and most certainly the man before them was no longer the striking young figurehead he had once been. Surely this Greystone was not the same man at all. . .

         One man present had the gall to call out amongst the silence. One man everyone had assumed wouldn’t show.

         “So what’s the big deal, your holiness?” the man said boastfully, yet skillfully sprinkled with sincere respect. “Pick someone else to take your place. I haven’t trusted Herald Derivatives or his company for a long time.”

         Everyone at the table, excluding Fredrick Trey and the Cardinal, stood with gaping mouths.

         At the door to the chapel council room stood Ross Trey. He bowed, gracefully and appropriately without a hint of dishonesty.

         “I thought you wouldn’t be arriving, brother,” Fredrick said through the shock. “Especially considering your dislike of politics.”

         Ross shrugged, even as Greystone’s eyes pierced his soul. “It’s a large occasion to miss; the announcing of a new Cardinal Duke Chancellor.”

         “Er, how is your unit, my friend,” the fat emperor of Tamen awkwardly ejaculated, standing and shaking hands with Ross with one hand and holding his canteen of illegal alcohol in the other.

         “As well as your cheeks. . .”

         The emperor was understandably confused. “How do you mean?”

         Ross laughed, embarrassed, realizing his joke was dumb and ill humored. “Oh, you know . . . red . . . bloody, I guess.”

         To this, everyone shook their heads in a way that implied that they had expected a bad pun; and received it.

         “Why, I thought that I was the ill-humored one,” Fredrick called across the room with a smile.

         “You are,” Ross began. “My jest was merely to emphasize the fact that the lot of you are sitting around fumbling rotten or otherwise irrelevant ideas within your skulls, while my troops die in a faraway place.”

         “No one said you had to come,” the Cardinal said with a grin. To everyone’s surprise, he then chuckled. “Why, I can’t believe I can still laugh. You’re as truthful and rude as ever! Publically insulting the lot of us useless bureaucrats. No wonder I adore you as I would a son.”

         Ross smiled back, “I apologize for my honesty, your holiness, but frankly I couldn’t miss this chance to see my old friend.”

         “I assume you’re not talking about me,” Fredrick chuckled.

         “Off course not, you perverted abuser of power,” Ross said, the smile just barely dissipating from his face. “Nor do I mean any of you other hermits. I mean the Cardinal . . . now tell me, in all seriousness, why you want to choose Herald as your successor.”

         The thin crease on Greystone’s lips ceased to be, and he put his hands on the table firmly, uprooting himself more formidably in his uncomfortable chair. He meant business.

         “The president of the middle country of Setinal shows all the potential and interest in piety, as well as experience and physical god-blessed powers to accept the position. . . Despite being the son of a harbinger of war, as I know you fear he will follow, this man is noble and polite, benevolent, and kind. Herald Derivatives had long been a priest, in his younger days, and is still to this day the head of the Setinese branch of the Traditionalist Church. . . In a way, I see him as a son as well.”

         Ross approached the table and calmly put down his fist. “This man has not shown his face here in over six months. On top of that . . . Cardinal, I know you’ve heard the rumors. With your connections, you’ve had to have.”

         The Cardinal was silent, momentarily, before clearing his throat and nodding his head. “Yes, though I’m surprised that you have. . .”

         “Then why?” Ross asked.

         The Vardinese Prince pulled on his mustache as this discussion commenced, strangely examining the Cardinal as if in extreme anticipation- and possibly even anxiety- of Greystone’s response to Ross’s question. Similar faces echoed across the table.

         The Cardinal thought for a moment. Then he looked around the room. “If not Herald, then who amongst these men could take the place as the son of Agarosh? The fat alcoholic of Tamen? The distrust-worthy and skeptical Prince of Vardinal? One of the sheep princesses- blasphemous idea; a women of such a holy position.”

         As he insulted the party one by one, they put their heads down in disgrace; or perhaps hatred of a mild sort.

         “Or perhaps one of the five lazy generals? Or perhaps this brother molester to my right?”

Fredrick appeared unoffended; and in fact he smiled. Only Ross saw the flicker of a tear in his eye. Was it fake?

         Finally Greystone looked at Ross. “Or perhaps you? The mentally wounded warrior?”

         Ross shrugged. “I’d love to, if it weren’t such a meaningless job.”

         Greystone chuckled again, coughed, and then sighed. “You’re probably right.”

         Then another voice spoke. The voice of a young man.

“How about me?”

         All eyes eased upward, hardly surprised by his presence.

         “Who’s he?” Ross asked.

         Fredrick laughed, and the Cardinal looked surprised. “Why, you don’t remember? My grandson, Vivichi. Oh yes, he must have been much younger last time you met him.”

         Ross recalled immediately as Vivichi came in through the door behind him, into the moonlight. A renowned prodigy Hero he’d met long ago.

         “Oh yea, if I recall I last met you at the Cardinal’s cabin in Vardinil back in 704; back when the Cardinal had first pulled me and Fredrick off the streets of Granden. You didn’t smell so much like pot back then,” Ross smirked.

         Several people gasped, others grinned, and Fredrick laughed again.

         “Why isn’t there much lighting in here?” Vivichi asked curiously, paying no heed to Ross’s comment.

         “You know, Vivichi,” Greystone said in a raspy voice, clearly affected by the large degree of talking and laughing. “It is customary; only candle light.”

         “Yea, yea, the first council was conducted during a blackout. It’s a dumb tradition,” Vivichi complained as he passed Ross.

         “Ah, but tradition has a way of reminding us of our past, lest we forget it,” Ross interjected charismatically into the conversation “. . . besides, personally I like the effect of candle-light.”

         Vivichi didn’t even look Ross in the eyes. Apparently, he wasn’t interested in conversation . . . or perhaps he just didn’t like Ross? “Whatever, there are more important issues at hand,” Vivichi stated.

         “My grandson,” Greystone began, “I couldn’t choose you to succeed my position. For one thing, I’m not supposed to choose a relative. . .”

         Approaching his grandfather, Vivichi’s blond hair glowed beneath the burning fires on the chandelier above, and an ambition of pure youth shone in his eyes. Ross determined he must have been around twenty now.

         And then, things got tense; fast.

         Slamming his palm hard upon the polished finish of the table God Wood, Vivichi began bellowing in his grandfather’s face.

         “You lair! Don’t act in front of these idiots as if we haven’t had this discussion before!”

         “My, Vivichi, your breath smells of alcohol as well. . .” Fredrick teased at such an inappropriate moment.

         To this, Vivichi flung off his cape, and a second later he’d pulled a blade on Fredrick. “Stay out of this, imbecile!”

         Vivichi’s sword swung in front of his grandfather’s face, across the table toward Fredrick.

         Fredrick was long prepared and easily blocked Vivichi’s short sword with no less than the fork he’d been eating with. “You want some?” Fredrick asked, provokingly. “You may think you’re on our level of ability, but your nothing. I could kill you in five seconds using only this utensil.”

         “That was pure luck, and I wasn’t trying,” Vivichi yelled.

         “That “luck” came from the god’s,” Fredrick whispered collectively, implying the experience and dominance of his older age. “And you’d be keen to not pick fights with me.”

         The guard’s outside heard the commotion and rushed in, but didn’t know what to do when they saw the scene. For one thing, it wasn’t smart to get in the way of two powerful Hero’s battling, and for another they knew it could have been “playful” banter; as Fredrick had been known to get himself into.

         Still, they pulled their energy rifles on the two just as Vivichi had brought his own laser pistol to eye level with Fredrick.

         “You won’t be needed,” Fredrick called to the guards. “Let him try and shoot me. Watch, my powers and luck are greater than his, and the gun will harmlessly malfunction in his hands.

         The guards were confused, as they were not ordered to take commands from Fredrick.          

         “Don’t leave,” Greystone hollered in as much breath as he could muster. “And put that thing away, Vivichi! There’s no guarantee that it will ‘harmlessly malfunction.’ It may very well explode in my face and melt your arm off.”

         “It won’t do either!” Vivichi said in his defense, “this man is a sinner, and the gods will have his head blown off!”

         “You don’t know that!” Greystone said. “If the gods only chose saints to act their will on the earth, neither of you would be here!”

         By this time, many of the people present had stood and were attempting to assist in stopping an ensuing battle.

         “You want to duel- do it the right way,” the Vardinese Prince said, grabbing hold of Vivichi’s gun arm. “Outside of a cemetery; not in the Grand Council room!”

         “You’re not helping!” A sheep princess screeched from the far end of the table.

         “No, it’s a fine idea; let’s take it out back to the graveyard!” Vivichi growled, calmly tossing off the prince of Vardinal and one of the five generals who had grabbed his arms.

         “Gladly,” Fredrick coolly stated.

         To this, Vivichi was roused yet more. He walked toward the door, and to no surprise to Ross, Fredrick almost seemed inclined to follow through.

         “Vivichi, stop this nonsense and talk like a normal man,” Greystone roared; as much as he could. “You too Fredrick.”

         “Calm down everyone, he’s just intoxicated,” the fat Tamenian Emperor added, having barely stood at all.

         Fredrick was just about to stand when Ross walked around the table and stood before him, menacingly. “Don’t you dare,” Ross’s shimmering brown eyes said to his brother.

His stature was small, but Ross’s face and reputation was intimidating.

         To this, Fredrick got the point, and didn’t look to be in the mood to stand up to his little brother; the only man on earth on the same level of power. “Huh, I’m sorry, Vivichi. I got carried away.”

         Luckily, Vivichi’s anger was wearing off as well. Truth be told, he was not usually this temperamental, and his grandfather knew this.

Ross, being observant, realized this as well. Last time they’d met, the young man was calm and intelligent; not spoiled and blood-thirsty. Something must have happened recently that had put him on edge.

         “Well, then I won’t be standing about. All of you; I beg of you to think on it,” Vivichi said, recollecting the tone of indifference and intelligence that had earned him a name of his own within the locality of Vardinal.

         With that unexpected burst of excitement, Vivichi took his leave, lighting a joint in the darkness of the exit hall. “Oh, and one more thing. . .” He called, turning on the stop before leaving the building. “In a perfect world, that man I threatened would have been arrested and tried for his crimes against his brother, not protected for his practicality and usefulness! . . . Just because he’s a Hero. . .”

         “I swear,” the grandfather and leader of the world commented after Vivichi had left, “ever since his sister died he’s been taking full advantage of his legal smoking age and toking all he wants.”

         “I suppose it’s getting to his head,” the Tamenian emperor stated, swigging down his illegal brandy.

         “No, the marijuana somewhat helps with his anger- at least for now; he still even gets marvelous grades in a top college,” the grandfather noted. “However, when he mixes it with alcohol from time to time . . . well, that’s when you get that monster.”

         “. . . In any case,” Fredrick started in curiosity. “If it’s not too painful, what happened to his sister?”

         Ross wouldn’t have even asked, though he was curious as well.

         “She killed herself not too long ago. She too was god-blessed and intelligent, and apparently the commoners at her college bullied her. . .”

         “Oh, that’s a shame,” one of the sheep princesses awed, sincerely.

         “This world sure is getting crazy, huh,” the Vardinese Prince added. “We’ve all been dealing with cases of non-blessed harassing Hero’s about their talent for a long time, haven’t we? And to think that back in the days of the war, they were literally considered heroes. . .”

         “. . . More importantly,” Greystone said; the blur and unease returning to his droning voice. “I’m tired, and this meeting got us nowhere. Maybe we should consider my grandson, given if he stops abusing drugs, legal and otherwise.”

         Greystone’s eye droned off in the other direction, and his good eye almost closed in exhaustion. He soon gathered his notebooks from the table and prepared to leave. Minutes after the second the council was started, it had stopped.

         The Cardinal, cane in hand and helper at his side, wobbled off, his bald head brightened by the firelight.

“I may be honest, but at least I know timing,” Ross said to his brother a few seconds after the Cardinal left the building. The others prepared to stand. “Truth is you knew that would tick the young man off, and you said it.”

Fredrick didn’t care much to comment. All he said was, “I’m sorry for the disturbance, but it all ended okay, so it doesn’t matter.”

          “But should we really choose Vivichi, if he gets better?” one of the Sheep Princesses asked. “I actually do pity him.”

         “Yea, like we’d chose him!” The eastern continent’s fat emperor laughed.

         “He isn’t qualified,” The prince of Vardinal added. “No one would even know who he was; it’d be a wildcard.”

         As the party of elite warriors and top politicians exited the grand chapel and entered the courtyard, the idea of Vivichi becoming the leader of the free world had indeed entered everyone’s mind; in the very least.

Ross actually thought of this, and he wondered if truly, that was all Vivichi had wanted; for surely if he was as smart as they’d said he wouldn’t have made such a scene and expected a better result.

         So it was that the Duke Cardinal Greystone lived on for an unexpected one-hundred and eighty more days of suffering, before being shot in the back and replaced by the worst Duke Chancellor in history- his grandson, the intelligent and scheming Vivichi the Blasphemous.

© Copyright 2014 R.G.Weldon (epicxryeduper at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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