Exodus

[Valdar and Astralis]

Spoken by Peredhil

 

 

I amar prestar aen.

The world has changed.

 

Han mathon ne nen.

I feel it in the water.

 

Han mathon ne chae.

I feel it in the earth.

 

A han nostron ned wilith.

I smell it in the air.

 

 

All that now is, will be lost

And none shall live to remember it.

 

It started when the world was young.

Seven seals were forged in the sun by the great creator, to bind earth to sea and sky.

Through the power of the seals, the lands of terra were born.

 

 

Eight lands in total were made, mirror images of one another.

Four bound to order, four to chaos.

 

 

When this was done, the seven created the eighth seal, the seal of souls

To bind the first of the Archmagi to the lands.

And so life came to terra, and with it the gift of reincarnation.

 

 

In those days, the gods delighted in the world, and walked amoung men entrusting them with their secrets.

But their trust was betrayed, for amoung the Archmagii, many strove for power.

Thinking they could become gods themselves, a number of the post powerful Archmagii rose up to break the seven, thinking that in the eighth, the power of gods would be theirs.

Instead, Terra was destroyed.

 

 

In the darkness, the seals were re-forged, and the gods swore an oath to never again speak of the eighth.

The lands of terra healed in time, and life returned

And all knowlege of the eight passed into darkness.

 

Again and again, the Archmagi broke the world

Again and again, the gods crushed those seeking the eight

 

Until now.

The eighth seal has been broken

The world felt the Sun god die

Terra will be lost. . .perhaps forever.

Already the madness is gathering

 

***

 

We must flee, or be consumed by this final Armageddon

Seven hundred years ago, the entity known only as "The Dreamer" brought us a gift from the void, a partial map of the Astral realm.

A suitable world has been chosen, and the construction of a gateway to bring us there is well underway.

 

Our enemies will know of this, and will attempt to wrest this gate from us.

The council has been deceived, and think our portal is some sort of superweapon.

Already, vast armies are on the march.

 

The pen cannot stand alone.

 

 

We must unite, or the Pen will be forever lost.

Edited October 21, 2003 by Valdar and Astralis

[Valdar and Astralis]

Please Read this thread first

[Peredhil]

From all the lands of Terra, a movement was stirring. The great Devil Prince Mari had been summoned and looked to never leave after this, the Final Reset Armageddon. Tangental interactions with Mari heretofor had led to disaster. Full presence threatened to disrupt forever the eternal cycle of those Magi fated to eternally fit, die, and reincarnate to fight again.

 

In some places, changes ensued.

 

The Legion of the White Rose, dressed entirely in S.W.A.T. suits and shouting "hut, hut, hut, hut" the entire time, swarmed, scrambled, opened a large portal and relocated enmass away from Terra to Norrath, incidently absorbing anyone visiting their fabled Tavern at the time, as they took not only Magi but the entire Legion multi-keep complex.

 

And in towers, keeps, donjons, dojos, citidels, jails, and other places of power, all over Terra, Ultima Thule, and points beyond, Members of the Pen is Mightier than the Sword felt a pulse from the Pens they'd received on becoming Initiates. Given in a handsome decorator case, up to now they'd been cherished momentos and badges of pride (or shame).

 

The Pen! Cutting across the allegiences of all Guilds, Alliances, or Cliches! Haven for some, annoyance for others, it had a compelling reality and all around niceness unlike quite anywhere else. If nothing else, it was a break from the Magical and Mundane, and eternal warfare of Terra.

 

The Pens pulsed. Nearly every one pulled out their secret decoder-rings. (Some people had had the good taste to throw the cheap plastic rings away) Spinning the dials they deciphered the pulses. "mplexphraclingniffle?" As this made no sense at all, they, each in their own way sent messages to the Pen Keep, and received the answer.

 

Mari would destroy all, not just Terra, but the Eternal Universal Bulletin Boards on which the spirits of Magi waiting to reencarnate, the Magi present, and, well, heck, just about anyone of any worth at all (and several of no worth whatsoever) hung about, would be destroyed.

 

The leaders of the Pen, and I use the term loosely, somewhat in the way you'd call a school of fish in front of a pack of cats the leaders of the cats, determined that the small Myfamily home wouldn't hold everyone at once. LoreMaster Jechum set off to secure larger facilities at the cheap but annoying Ezboard, wresting a Tower and adjoining lands from its primoreal chaos while the War Leader Lumpenproletariat was dispatched to organize the fighting retreat.

 

As the Pen as a whole were writers, not organized fighters, the Exodus was a mess. This is its story...

[Tamaranis]

This was the complete opposite of most spells cast by archmagi, which were painstakingly rewritten and modified to make them as near to unbreakable as possible, and to have earth shattering effect.. Instead this spell had been specifically engineered for weakness, and didn‘t actually do anything beside exist. A novice mage with the same degree of natural power as a garden slug could have extinguished it with hardly a thought.

 

But it was a very stable spell. All of Tamaranis’ spells operated on logic, remained in his control, and were as free of elemental chaos as possible. That was particularly true of this particular spell. It was the very embodiment of the term “static” Left undisturbed the tiny magical mote, hardly visible even to mage-eyes, would be unchanged a million years from now.

 

Surrounding it were spells a little more common to the powerful archmagi who inhabited Terra. The constant war between beings who could call meteors from the sky had given rise to some particularly potent defensive spells, typically called barriers. The mental and spiritual stresses these wards placed on their casters were often prohibitive, but a sufficiently motivated archmage would be able to overcome those stresses and intercept all but the most powerful of destructive magic heading his way.

 

The need to conduct an isolated experiment had been very motivating, and Tamaranis had overcome those stresses, and centred the barriers on this point. A direct attack by another archmage would have no effect on this location for several minutes, at which point he would surely be aware of it.

 

No one on Terra, not even a god, could affect the spell he had crafted here without his knowledge.

 

He stared at it intently, willing the spell to remain in place.

 

Tamaranis’ suspicions were confirmed when it winked out of existence. Nothing had come through the barriers, and no one was present but himself to break the spell. But he hadn’t acted, and the magic was no more.

 

The last time Tamaranis had seen this phenomenon something had been deeply wrong. The fabric of Terra had been unravelling.

 

How many others knew this was going on then? How many had bothered to observe the specifics of the near-apocalypse that had threatened Terra decades ago and now observed the similarity? Not the council, if they were aware they would be trying to correct the problem instead of gathering the archmagi of the world to attack The Pen, which as far as Tamaranis could tell was the most non-threatening organization in existence.

 

But perhaps this was the answer to the question of what The Pen was really building. The council’s notion of a guild of writers and artists constructing a super-weapon for aggressive purposes was absurd. Mages nearly as powerful as, and far wiser than, those in the council held membership in The Pen, and they had the background to know what was happening.

 

Either they were trying to prevent the end of Terra, or they had determined that to be impossible and were trying to escape to another world.

 

One way or another, Tamaranis realized, if he allowed himself to be pulled into the council’s war effort, he would ultimately be on the losing side.

[Canid]

Every falsehood stems from a truth.

There would be no reason for a lie if there were not something to cover up. A rumour would not start if nothing started it.

It followed that something existed at The Pen that had started the rumour of a superweapon.

 

Prospero began to eat the spine in the way a herron swallows a fish. She would have been inclined to chew the remains of the rodent, herself.

An electric crackle sped through the air, changing the sky from red, to dingy purple. Canid strained her eyes to identify the delicate change in colour amid her black and white world.

 

She had visited the peace-loving guild of writers on several occasions. They were individually intelligent and powerfull, but as a pack, dissorganized and lazy.

It was blatantly obvious that their sudden collaborative effort was related to the freakish feel to her world.

 

She was a day out from Legman's ground. She had called on him in hopes of an explanation. Legman was gone. She was in the dark.

 

Canid did not like being in the dark.

If the Pen was doing something; they knew what was happening.

[Regel]

Terra was dying. The landscape had changed and the Exodus from terra had begun before the last Armageddon. Mari had left Terra a lawless place. The days of honour had passed and multi-mages ran Terra now. He had witnessed the Angel's oldest ally Kendrick lead the march away from Terra to Norrath, taking with him mages that he fought beside and grown to love. Dam him and his new addiction. Archmagers called it EverCrack. We lost Joat116 and Mistress SteelDragon to Lord Kendrick and EQ as well. The Legionnaires ship had sailed and any Legionnaires that remained were offered a home with The Angels of the Apocalypse. It was the coming of the end.

Fear of God was rendered useless and the bugs! The bugs had grown large enough to pull the carts that hauled away the dead. Plague had left Regel’s army in tatters and he would have to wait on turns before he could even begin to entertain the idea of rebuilding his once formidable army. Only one lone Red Dragon remained. Char was 300 years old and had been with Regel since he was a lad. He had been his father’s mount and his grandfather before that. He was all that had survived through the first ten hours of Armageddon.

A ragged renegade wizard came bursting into Regel’s tent. “Have you heard!” shouted the panting wizard. “Mari is staging an assault on The Pen!” A squabble had broken out between a Hydra and some sorry looking Salamander outside the tent. Regel was confused. Tempers were short and he had gone without sleep for far too long. Had he imagined what his wide eye soldier had just said? “Be quiet outside or I will pour some oils over both of you and have Char blow fire on you both!” roared Regel. “Say again and slow down.”Regel managed in a softer tone. "Take a seat, now what's this all about?"The wizard began again.

[Quincunx]

It had been two and a half months since Tzimfemme had re-awakened, at the beginning of Ager Terra Seven (Reset that was Not), and moved the strangely permanent pack of personae to the Pen. They were still getting accustomed to their roles--not a day went by without one or another discovering that she no longer had ability X, memory Y, or emotion Z. Rydia had claimed love, and, after traveling to portions of the LotWR keep no nonmember was supposed to see, was starting to leach lust away from Tzimfemme. Tzimfemme's nightmares of drowning woke Rosemary up day after day and the naked mage began to feel the aftereffects of devouring a soul. Minta started forgetting to talk like an almost-grown-up-really girl would and slid back into more childish speech.

 

The Pen, however unstable its inhabitants might be, was the most secure site in many universes. It cushioned the shock of the contract with Devil Prince MARI and kept awareness of the evil Penguin* from being directly communicated to its inhabitants. Still, many leapt from their writing-desks with the sudden knowledge of the world about to change beyond recognition. For Rosemary, it came through her spiral of silver engraved into her wall, the eyes of Ager Guilded laid out like an opening flower, when most of the eyeballs blazed and glared hatefully at the octagon of unaffected gazes. Rosemary, who was remote from this chart, still heard the howling disbelief from each mage as their name was forgotten and their eye drooped shut.

 

"Those who sing," she crooned, tracing the connecting spirals of the few eyes which were still open. Aside from a clutch near the center and two out of a trail of six, still glaring, the wall was reserved for that perfect octagon. . .which was shifting. . .compressing. . .into an octahedron which rotated lazily on the wall even as the baleful eyes swirled like shrapnel and dashed themselves against it. The madness had destroyed Rosemary's ability to use words when it first hit, and even now the concept of 'Reinforce the Pen and you will be able to withstand anything' communicated itself in mathematical form instead. But how could she force it through her tongue so that the others might understand?

 

That question was partially answered when Minta rocketed into the room with a smoking armful of green meat, trailing spent mana and pieces of orc. "Rosemary guess what! There's a super duper HUGE army coming to attack, can I kill them an' raise their dead, please!" she blurted. Minta had the authority of any other archmage now, but she tended to forget that and defer to Rosemary still in tactical matters. At the nod from Rosemary, she dumped the orcflesh onto the floor (oozy green blood slid towards the kitchen and blood gutters) and flung her hands upward. The meat was yanked upwards and, suspended in midair, began to fall over itself to form a humanoid shape. "An' that's happening to all the OTHER dead orcs out there, too!" squealed Minta as the new zombie took shape. "Now killkillkill the live ones okok!"

 

 

* Penguin, aka Mary Min, was present in late 1998, the Reset Before Terra Divided, as a less-than-impartial admin who deleted mages of Ångels of Åpocalypse who warred against her guild Goddess Yaong. At the time of this story (October '01), she was being placed back on the Archmage staff as head of Customer Service. If that wasn't the eighth sign of Terra being deleted, I don't know what is.

[Regel]

“It would appear that the Devil Prince Mari has assembled an enormous army. It is said that they are moving against The Pen and will destroy their weapon of mass destruction.” the renegade wizard said. “The Pen has a weapon? What weapon could The Pen have that would worry Mari?” Regel asked. “Have they developed a rapid firing fountain pen perhaps?”

 

This was not an uncommon tactic Regel had to relax his men in tense moments, but his humour went unnoticed and the wizard continued without a smile. The clouds of concern were still clinging to his face as he spoke “The Portal is what they fear master. They believe that it will be used to lead a mass Exodus away from terra.”

 

Regel shook his head “What a waste of time. Destroying the portal will be a small inconvenience to the mages of The Pen. They will have another up and running in less than a fortnight.”

 

“Master Regel there will be no Pen!!! None of the mages will be left alive!! Mari’s army will outnumber the stars in the sky.” the renegade wizards pace had picked up again “We have reports coming from the camps of ChinaCat, Jacob and Druideen that this army is still pasting there camps.” Regel’s face went ashen “That’s impossible ChinaCat and Druideen’s camps are three days fast march apart. Their troops would number in the millions.” The renegade wizard simply nodded.

[Valdar and Astralis]

Norrath

Valdar was tempted. The gods knew he was tempted, therefore, he could not act.

 

Well, not directly.

 

Staring into the sky in fustration with his ears sticking out in worry, the reborn planewalker weighed his limited options. Attempting to leave Norrath in his current state was more or less out of the question, weak as he was. Possessing a Terran was equally risky, and even more futile. An emmisary?--he had none strong enough yet. . .or did he?

 

A grin spread across his face.

 

Grasping a forearm, Valdar channeled a thin stream of mana into an almost forgotten and faded symbol. It resisted for a moment, sending a wave of fammiliar pain through him. Increasing the flow to nearly detectable levels remedied the problem as the rune burst to life, burning it's way back to the surface with a black-green flame.

 

Terra

In the crypts beneath the Pen's foundations, an ancient tomb rumbled and cracked. Thick clouds of carbon dioxide poured out from the grave and filled the catacombs. . .

 

Norrath

Ears flat against the side of his head in concentration, Valdar felt his servant wake, and completed the link.

 

"Protect the Pen"

 

A brief scream of rage escaped the rune, mingling with the chill of undeath before fading into the cool night air.

 

He released the grip on his forearm, basking in the thrill of subsiding pain for a moment while the skin mended around the rune. Waving away a concerned guard, Valdar made his way back to his room.

 

***

 

On Terra, the scream of rage and pain continued unabated, until the tomb shattered, leaving in it's place the skeletonized remains of a long dead warrior.

 

 

For a time, at least, Mad Jedi returned to terra.

Edited October 24, 2003 by Valdar and Astralis

[Zadown]

It barely remembered what it was. Stripped of armies, of brothers, of power and even of sword, it lingered around its old haunts like a mere deeper shadow. Its voice had faded again, first the words, then even the eerie cry of pain that used to herald its hunts and skirmishes, that used to strike fear into the hearts of its enemies. It had been vanishing, been on the verge of turning into a ghost of a ghost ... but something stirred it, sent little jolts of pain and anger into it, feeding it.

 

It stood up, turned from a two-dimensional splash of darkness on the ground to a transparent wraith of a tall, thin man. Its claws searched for something that was its own, that was its heart now but didn't find it. Its eyes flared, two red pin-points of rage and anger. It called. And the called thing heard its wordless order, floated through Lost Paths and known worlds, appeared in its hand.

 

Inhumatus gripped the once-notched hilt of Pain with both hands, drew strenght from it and the odd miasma of destruction hanging in the air near Pen (where it had almost faded out), turned from a vague outline in the air to deeper, darker form. It did not know why it had awaken, or what was coming that made the air throb with death and despair, but it honored the memory of its brothers at Pen.

 

Inhumatus would hunt again.

 

OOOoooOOOOooooOOOOOOOoooOOOOooOOOOOoooOOOOOoooOOo!!!

 

[Canid]

Canid sat on top of the rocky little hill feeling extremely agitated.

She had a good view of the distant Pen. About fifty armies had spread themselves out in an uneven circle around the literary fortress. The fastest of them would reach it in a day - if she moved at full pace, she could make it there a few hours after the first attack.

The armies seemed ants in the heiarchy of her worries though. Whatever The Pen was forming, she did not like it. It hung above their keep in a silver-blue cloud, flickering yellow like some infant fire. Waves of magical disruption came from it. They washed sickeningly through her, dampening her connection to the soil - blinding her senses.

A sense of urgency threw itself upon her. Canid began leaping awkwardly down the rocks, Prospero close at her heels.

[Peredhil]

[Elladan]

As he often did, he patrolled the borders of their acreage in the lee hours of midnight, silent as a shadow, using Ranger skills he'd never let rust. Really, fighting over this miserable piece of land was absurditiy in the extreme, but where Peredhil went, he followed. He no longer questioned why this was so, just that it was one of the foundations of his reality.

 

And this wasn't as bad as other places they'd been. Peredhil used the secret Portal in his Library to come and go to the Pen Keep, and left him in charge. All the lovely blood, washing rage away. He loved the smells of the battles, the screams of pain and terror underwent alchemical transformation enroute, becoming pleasures and pleadings for more. Besides, everything except the undead flesh was good fertilizer.

 

He'd allowed his perceptions to stretch here, honed by his fathers ridiculous limitation that he only counter-attack, never strike the first blow.

 

It was as he thought. The storms of battle were brewing in the cauldron skies of Terra. The sounds of earth tortured under armies tickled his ears, the smells of greed and fear wafted to his finely-bred nostril, and almost he smiled.

A magnificent time of blood was coming, coming.

Death, the only lover fit for him, was about to be wooed again.

In battle, all restrictions cease.

 

...

 

Looking out over the curtain wall of the modest donjon, he laughed aloud as he assessed that with which he had to work. The research rooms and library were matched only by the Healing Halls for size. The Arch Angels understood the evil of Magi, for they stood their lonely watches out by the borders, outside the concentric ring after ring of Treants, carefully tended by their Dryads. (What had happened to old Fangorn anyway?) In their pools, Nymphs and Slyphs danced attendence on each others. There were an unValared amount of Faerie Dragons sleeping everywhere, small glimpses of rainbows and happy moments - he enjoyed playing tag with them when the occasion arose.

With a sour look, he looked over to the Barracks. For every ten Archers, his oh so loving Daddy had hired a Hero. Other Heros from Other Kingdoms led their troops to battle. These sometimes had to be pointed to the battles. With a happy sigh he contemplated their impending demise, all these Heros of the Eighth and Nineth Orders, whom Daddy always hired because he felt sorry for them.

 

Looking out over the curtain wall again, he realized that all this would wither burn and die soon. All the auguries pointed that way. It gave him a warm happy feeling, like when he'd poisoned Elrohir for the first time, for having humiliated him in public, that contented feeling watching him turn blue and struggle to breathe, as he, Elladan, had had to struggle not to cry, before Dad had healed him. Seeing his Father's healing powers in that moment, he'd realized that at three years of age, his vengeances would have limits. He'd made sure he'd set up the situations to kill the rest of them that had seen his shame and weakness, when Elrohir had taken his toy dwarfs and broken one of the heads, he'd made sure he killed the rest of them away from his Father.

 

All these troops, all these armies, were going to die.

 

He'd have to see about lining up some of the automations he'd heard about, the ones that were cheaper and better than the Iron Golems. Having large toys break instead of people should please Peredhil.

 

He no longer bothered to wonder why keeping his father was so important to him.

[Elladan]

 

[Peredhil]

With a hefty tip for the barmain, he left the Tavern at the White Rose place. He loved wandering around, listening to how others felt and thought. The excellent company, food, and drink.

 

He nibbled on some AoA chocolate, and considered where to go next. A quick trip to see if he could weedle some Seventh Gate cookies, then by the Armies of Darkness place (he fingered the matches he'd found, for he'd promised to let them burn him at the stake again,) and then swing by the Pen.

 

After that, he'd go see how Elladan was doing.

[Peredhil]