The One Tower

[Zadown]

Imagine a world.

 

Shaped like a disc with big islands swimming in the ocean, small sun soaring close over it and creating little rainbows in the endless huge waterfall surrounding the world, water falling down down down to the red gloom far below the disc. At this height all the islands look the same, green splashes against blue background, boring. So you look below the world, expecting to see elephants or at least the turtle, but not all worlds shaped like this are the same. Instead, a flare of yellow-white fire reaches up and your mind's eye flinches back. Below the roaring sound of flames a cackling noise surfaces, and a swarm of little demons fly past.

 

You retreat, even though the demons can't see you, and the world gets smaller and smaller in your eyes (and it never was that big in the first place), until you go through a wall and all you can see is white marble.

 

Imagine a house of gods.

 

All white and shining, guards in pearlescent armor standing still in corners (eyes shining with the old memories of the heroic souls trapped inside those shimmering helms), tranquil soft music floating from afar. Stairs, corridoors, hallways, empty and huge and echoing, the marble they are made of slightly translucent. You float up and up through the abandoned spaces, towards the slight noise you can barely hear.

 

Finally, you go through a pair of enormous double doors, and the low murmur of voices rises to babble of discussions. Before you opens a huge room, filled with gods talking, arguing, raging and observing: G’lky’Chee speaking with Black Yainian, the first the demon king of Hell and fire, the second a twisted alien figure; Uuwell the mistress of seas rising her voice at Mannah, queen of earth; and in the corner of the hall stands the Lady, smiling faintly to some private joke. They fill the room with their presence, each a powerful, captivating figure ... but still, what draws your eyes is what lies in the middle of the room.

 

It is the world, in perfect detail. Upon it's exquisite surface you can see small figurines, game chips and a pair of big dice. And as you look closer, you can see a figurine of a tower standing in the northern parts of Aef, right next to the mountains.

 

Now, imagine a tower...

Edited April 29, 2004 by Alaeha

[Zadown]

The sun sinks behind the highest peaks of the Black Mountains, the teeth of the world eating the light away. Long evening shadows creep across the foothills, devour rocks and small stunted brushes, fade out the outlines of meandering paths. They race on, running past a skull-on-a-spear stuck in the ground, hiding the glint of a rusting arrowhead here, touching a rotting bone there - minor signs of an everlasting war, humans against the orcs. Then they find a wall, jump over it and creep up a tower, inch by inch.

 

At the top-most room of that tower, still bathing in the red hues of an evening sun, stands an Aefian knight. His armor doesn't shine in the light, being carefully painted over with grey, but his posture is as good as any of the southern knights in court, and his eyes show resolve. He has blond, short hair, strong jaw set in wide, not ugly nor handsome face. He is clad in mail and plate (and the way he stands shows he is used to wearing armor), over his chest a tabard showing the coat of arms of the Knighthood of Muted Laughter: a single red tear on grey background. Andraw Iachamadon, the commander of the watchtower, surveys the rocky wasteland before him and shrugs slightly. He lets his gaze fall from orc lands closer, to the wall surrounding the tower, wooden barracks and other buildings inside it, the few soldiers and scouts moving around doing various tasks. He notes the scarcity of them and thinks of the capital city far away in south, of the money used there for amusement, building, culture. Briefly a thought of writing a letter crosses his mind, then he abandons it, knows he already has pushed the limits. He hears a crash from the room below. Knowing what it probably was, he ignores it, turns away from the darkening landscape and sits down heavily on his chair. Before him the table is littered with parchments and scrolls, on the right side his gauntlets lie on it, on the left side an unlit lantern and a quill next to an inkwell. His kind of battlefield, now. He starts to work.

 

Shadows creep higher and light fades even in the commander's room. A few candles and lanterns are lit in the deepening gloom, dotting the tower with small pinpoints of light. In the darkness beyond, something grins and scurries away.

Edited April 29, 2004 by Alaeha

[Zadown]

Hell! That was my last bottle!

 

A dark room. Before a scruffy magician in dirty robes, a broken bottle of Chamanian red bleeds it's last drops to the wooden floor. The room smells sour, the scent of newly worked wood vanishing beneath the rank stink of unwashed human and the smell of red wine. The magician clumsily moves forward a few steps, then curses again, this time aloud, and fumbles for a lantern. After a few tries, he manages to light it and squints at the bottle again, in the hopes that it isn't broken, that it just was some bad vision as often before. Not this time, he is too sober for visions: the bottle stays broken. The light shows something else, though. It illuminates cruelly the dark red glistening scars on the left side of the mage's face. They reach from his throat over his cheek and to the left eye (which is milky and obviously blind) so deep red they still look like open wounds, still after over 15 years.

 

Erian Yamordo coughs, then spits on the floor. He opens his right hand as to grasp air, muttering and coughing, and his heavy staff appears in his outstreched hand. The mage shudders and starts to walk ponderously towards the door, managing to kick two empty bottles on the way out.

Edited April 29, 2004 by Alaeha

[Zadown]

Moon rises over the desolate land, small crimson crescent hanging high in the sky, in the middle of stars. No clouds and thin air make the heavenly lights shine clearly and unwaveringly - in the resulting soft light, the paths are easy to navigate, and the small troop of knights and men-at-arms have no trouble keeping up a good speed. In the eyes of most of them shines a spark of doubt and where they pass the sour smell of fear lingers for a fleeting moment. Night might not be totally dark, but it still does not belong to humans.

 

We should already be at the tower, by Marcha's balls! These accursed foothills are perfect for ambush...

 

Bain von Rayleh fingers the hilt of his bastard sword but shows no other signs of nervousness. He is a young man, clad mostly in mail, a tabard showing a red tear on grey over his breastplate, face still free of cares and woes. Ahead, the path slithers between boulders and small bushes and he and his troop march forward, always forward with a weary step. Until finally the path turns sharply yet again, and before them rises the tower, a dark shadow against the soft light of the stars, shadow full of small points of light.

 

Nobody says anything out loud (the few cheerful murmurs are obscured by the noises of armor and horses), but the troop straightens up, men-at-arms and knights grinning (every one of them sharing the same kind of grin, noble or freeborn) in relief at the promises of beer, safety, hot food and rest the tower offers. They stop for a moment, and Bain finally breaks the silence with his loud, commander's voice:

 

"Ha! I said we'd get here today, didn't I, my men! Now act like soldiers when we march, will you?"

 

He slaps the shoulder of the nearest knight and smiles.

 

"Let's go get some beer!"

 

Men cheer and speak loudly, night around them forgotten, and follow their commander who marches on with renewed vigor.

Edited April 29, 2004 by Alaeha