I had a full novel length dream and I am now going to write it out.
Expect mystery, drama, intrigue and romance.
Lots and lots and lots of sappy romance.
Unnamed chronicle of Liuv'arati Meriander.
Month of Ogstval, seventh cycle. The year is seven thousand, five hundred and twelve going by the start of my writings.
I am on my way to the northern hold of Rodzina. I have received an invite that events have transpired there that are worthy of being noted down. Given what rumours have reached my ears in lands far from where they originated, I am inclined to believe it. As is my custom, I have not begun writing until I found sufficient evidence of interesting events. And that I now posses.
The kingdom that once sheltered Rodzina is no more! Its King and Queen are no more. This is a rarity to begin with. Nobles of our kind rarely die. We do not age, we do not wilt. Unlike our servant races whom I still believe will one day outlive us, we do not grow weak and frail. Diseases does not frighten us. We are the rulers of this world, and as such there is naught that truly threatens us. In neither strength of arm, force of will or talent in magic we are not surpassed by any of our creations, and but few beings stand on equal footing with us in any singular aspect, let alone a multitude.
As such the news of their passing has shocked me all the more. I was not personally acquainted with either King or Queen, yet from what I have gathered, their births precede my own. And I can scarcely recall that as it stands. I have not met their daughter either, yet I know she is one who holds, or possibly held, the title of Archmaga, a rank not easily earned, and hotly contested once done so. To imagine a being of such might fall is simply unthinkable.
What is even more stunning, and likely will send our kin in a true uproar if true and not just rumour, is that their deaths came after the raising of an army. This, above all, has piqued my interest. Long my memory is, and yet I can recall on one hand when my kindred went to war. The Invasion of the Beyond, where five hundred of us cleansed the dimension above as it broke into ours. The Eradication of the Annulled, as my ancestors cleansed the planet of a vermin most foul. Not so much a war than a concentrated act of pest control for the sake of aesthetics. The Shunning of the Gods, uncountable ages ago, when our kind broke free of the shackles that bound us. The one time our race stood united. But we were young then. Not yet given to the torment of eternity.
Only for the Invasion was I alive, and even so I was still young. I had been alive for less than a standard millennia, barely begun to take up my quill. Yet it is not an event I shall soon forget. Five hundred of us, marching as one against a true threat. What might! What glory! And how soon we came apart after we had annihilated our hapless foes. Forty-seven of us fell, and I can still remember their names. The single, greatest loss of life we have suffered in the last ten thousand years.
And now this. While a part of me feels I should weep for this supposed loss of life, I cannot bring myself to shed a tear. The prospect of something new, something exciting, something to finally break the hold that the horrors of eternal boredom have cast upon me, holds me enthralled.
As such I am making haste to the far north, my heart beating fast, pausing only briefly to rest and to gather more rumours. My excitement can hardly be contained.
Unnamed chronicle of Liuv'arati Meriander.
Month of Ogstval, forty-eight cycle. The year is seven thousand, five hundred and twelve going by the start of my writings.
The rumours abound! I have reached the southern border of the kingdom that was once known as Skarbnot. I have yet to find the truth. The Udzi, Nolud, Jeden, and other servant races that dwell in this place cannot be trusted to speak true. This is not their fault. Their lifespans are too short, their minds too small. They cannot comprehend us, cannot discern world from wonder. Yet I cannot deny that their words intrigue me.
They have welcomed me with all the splendour and hospitality in their possession, and stopped me not when I entered the palaces of my kin. They clean them, maintain them, yet they are no longer inhabited and much of it is left untouched, as they dare not enter the inner sanctums. I find no hints here. As is the case, our race is not given to much in the way of activity. There are no logbooks, no notes, no diaries. Passion projects I find aplenty, left untouched, unfinished. Covered by a thin layer of dust, an intolerable sign of neglect that none of us would permit. Were the rumours true then? Was an army truly raised? Was an army truly, and the thought alone fills me with dread, defeated? No. That is impossible. We are the rulers of this world. Nothing stands above us. We are the pinnacle of all life. Even the gods themselves have been cast down and trampled beneath our feet.
Yet I cannot help but wonder...
Where have my kin gone?
Unnamed chronicle of Liuv'arati Meriander.
Month of Hervoren, twelfth cycle. The year is seven thousand, five hundred and twelve going by the start of my writings.
I am nearing Rodzina. A battle has taken place. This is undeniable. The air is swirling with the rampant energies of out of control spells. Magic permeates the air and chases off anything that lives. I have already passes the corpses of fools who thought this place ripe for picking. Mortal fools, thinking of gaining unfathomable wealth and power should they find the artifacts of our dead. The wild magic has swallowed them whole.
Even I am forced to protect myself from these outbursts. Whatever has happened further up north, it is worthy of being recorded. Soon this chronicle will be unnamed no longer.
Unnamed chronicle of Liuv'arati Meriander.
Month of Hervoren, fifthieth cycle. The year is seven thousand, five hundred and twelve going by the start of my writings.
My trek north is hard. The magic grows ever more wild and dangerous. A land that should have been prosperous and green has been rendered lifeless and ground to powder. A desert of dust and death it has become. I will write little. Onward I must go. Merely being here saps my strength in a way nothing has done since the battle against the Invaders.
Unnamed chronicle of Liuv'arati Meriander.
Month of Lesbares, sixth cycle. The year is seven thousand, five hundred and twelve going by the start of my writings.
I am bereft for words. I have found the site of the battle. In the distance the palace of Rodzina looms. The palace is but two days away, yet already I can see the might of its walls. The land in front of it is... Were it a living being, I would describe it as massacred, torn asunder, an exploded corpse devoured and its bloody remnants scattered all over. There are gaping canyons where spells of unfathomable power have struck, entire plateaus have been raised by unimaginable energies, mountains have been destroyed, their mass scattered like mere pebbles. Even the sky itself was broken. I have to navigate carefully, lest these magical currents drown me and render me to ashes. Not even in the Invasion have I seen such destruction wrought.
And yet in the distance Rodzina stands. An unbroken symbol of might. Our might. And somewhere within, the one who called for me, waits upon my arrival.
Unnamed chronicle of Liuv'arati Meriander.
Month of Lesbares, tenth cycle. The year is seven thousand, five hundred and twelve going by the start of my writings.
I have arrived. It took me twice as long to cross the final distance, having to avoid many lethal paths. Using my own magic was no longer safe, as it attracted unnatural lightning from above, as if my existence was an affront to nature itself that needed to be wiped clean.
More than once was I wounded on the final day. A sensation I had not experienced before. I will not write of it here, as this is not the place for it, but it was a form of sweet ambrosia. A unique, new sensation. And that is all I will say of it.
Instead I will dedicate this writing to the palace of Rodzina. Once I came close to the walls, I could truly appreciate their wonder. They towered into the sky, parting the clouds themselves. A man could leap off them and learn how to fly before he'd hit the ground. And the spells woven into them! Marvellous! Ground-breaking! Mind-shattering! The Arch Maga herself must have been involved in their creation! Truly, this must have been a project she had worked on for centuries! A shining example what our kind can accomplish if we put our minds to a task and see it through!
Even more amazed I was when the gates were opened to me. I expected it to be a palace like any other of our kind. Full of splendour, beauty, magic, brimming with life. Yet while I found all of the former, I found scarcely little of the latter. Perhaps I should have known it to be so. A battle like that could have left but little survivors.
I was greeted with suspicion at first, but once I showed them my invitation their behaviour changed instantly. They welcomed me in, quick and efficiently. If their hospitality was lacking and no great ceremonies were forthcoming, as is our custom, I can hardly blame them for it, given the circumstances. Yet I cannot shake the feeling that they were trying to keep my visit as inconspicuous as possible. Tomorrow I am to meet with my mysterious host. I am most eager.
A final footnote, a minor thing, truly, considering all that transpired. I have been served and seen to my others of my kin, or by magical constructs. I have yet to spy the presence of any of the races our kind surrounds itself with to see to our needs and wants. Perhaps they all died in this mysterious conflict.Yet given how so many things fail to make sense here, I cannot help but wonder.
Unnamed chronicle of Liuv'arati Meriander.
Month of Lesbares, eleventh cycle. The year is seven thousand, five hundred and twelve going by the start of my writings.
Magical recording.
A knock on the door, brusquely followed by a most rude breaking of the rules of hospitality and privacy as they are opened and a person enters.
I cough loudly, and turn, a glare firmly affixed to my face as I intend to make my displeasure clear. Yet before I can do much, the trespasser all but leaps at me and covers my mouth.
"We are changing locations for our meeting. You are not to speak, or use magic. If you attract mother's attention, you will die." Her eyes are clear, her irises a beautiful crystal. Power swirls within them. And determination. And life. A passion for existing I have rarely seen in my own kin. What little flames these events had sparked to life inside me paled in comparison to the wildfire I saw within her. It swept me along, compelling me to nod, foregoing my pride in the face of her urgency.
I followed her as we raced through the palace. Energies swirled in abundance, magical creatures and machinations raced back and forth in roles usually reserved for our servant races, and yet she paid these unliving automata more heed than their living counterparts would have warranted.
Eventually we reached a small door filled with wards and protective inscriptions, yet the magical walls put in place parted easily at her approach, permitting her entrance, narrowly allowing me to follow suit before slamming shut, akin to the ocean reclaiming lost land.
My unknown hostage-taker let out a deep sigh of relief, and I took a moment to observe my surroundings. It was clear I was in a wing that belonged to a member of my kind, even if it was not as opulent as I was used to. While the size of the rooms was a clear indicator that I was dealing with a noble, the interior was downright spartan in comparison. It was... Simple. Intolerably so. I know none of our kind who would take up residence here. Yet this woman, whose every movement was ablaze with life and energy, had done so.
"Mother won't find us here. She doesn't look past the wards. Thank the heavens I found you before she realized you were here. Who was it that lead you to those rooms?" She raised a hand. "No, don't tell me. Pretty sure it was Corva'rem. Blasted fool!"
If I had been struck, it would have been less shocked. We are godly beings. We do not curse, we do not swear, and we certainly do not "thank the heavens". My most must have fallen open, for my mysterious benefactor was quick to take notice.
"Not used to my way of talking? I suppose that's fair enough. Dad did most of the raising, and mother was quick to be suborned to his way of thinking." She flashed me an open, honest smile and I veered back from her as if she had brandished a weapon. It only served to make her erupt with laughter.
"Yeah, I figured. This goes both ways. I haven't exactly met a lot of your kind, aside mother's parents, and uncle, but they act similar to you. There's no way for it, though. We'll both have to get used to it in order to get what we want."
I pushed down my discomfort. It was not too hard. I had written memoirs of some of our kin who had gone far off the beaten path. Yet most of those were confessions of people who had readied themselves for death. Never before had I come to face with such a young, vibrant voice that differed so greatly from the rest of us. The ever-present reminder that enormous magical energies cascaded all around us, as well as innumerable magical sigils, formations and circles, made accepting my situation even more of a done deal. I was in the dragon's den, and not as the hunter.
She ran a hand through her hair, her eyes focused on mine, and she made no effort to hide her distrust of me. Yet after a moment's hesitation, she offered me her hand.
"I'm Netasha'ereva," she introduced herself. "Eldest child. I am the one who invited you here, to write down the tale of what has happened."
I was a moment late in responding, but I found myself compelled to accept the offered hand, and shook it, spitting upon millennia of noble customs as I did. "I am Liuv'arati Meriander, Chronicler."
Another smile, one of a type I would grow to recognize as wicked. As amusement at my expense. "Liu," she shortened my name, an act of blasphemy for which I would have had her head in any other circumstances. "Call me Neta. Full names are too much of a mouthful anyway."
She left me standing perplexed, casually moving towards a comfortable seat in the room, as if she had not just offered me something only the closest of lovers and friends would permit. As I struggled to regain my composure, she draped herself over a set of cushions and looked at me with something in between mockery and curiosity.
Let it be known that I can tolerate much in the search for stories. That the long millennia have numbed many of my senses. Yet her behaviour kindled emotions in me I had long not felt. Anger and rage began to flow through me at these insults. Countless aeons had we refined our interactions. Endlessly we had slaved away at the art of diplomacy, of courtly behaviour, of saying without speaking, and here was this, this harlot! Trodding upon all we had wrought! In my righteous anger, I tried to lash out.
And I was pulled short by the power of spells well beyond me. She had not opened her mouth, not intoned any incantations. She had neither stirred nor moved, yet bound I was in an instant, rendered helpless and fully at her mercy. I stared up at her in contained rage.
Yet there was no anger in her eyes. No displeasure. Either she hid it masterfully, which I doubted, or she genuinely took no offence at my outburst.
"I am not even three hundred years old, Chronicler," she whispered, my ears straining to hear her words.
Lightning could have struck me, and it would have left me less aghast. Had her previous behaviour been appalling and breaking with our traditions, this one shattered it completely, though it did explain much.
Our kind is one that lives eternal. Death is a rarity, and if it comes, it is typically caused by another of our race, or by the weight of boredom crushing us. When you are as omnipotent and godly as ours, the world is not a threat to us. It is us who are the threat to the world. In order to safeguard is existence, long ago, countless years, our ancestors moulded us to be unfailingly polite. It was a thrill to chase after courtly perfection, to find more inventive ways to plot, to commit to intrigues, to lie unseen, to mislead, trick, deceive. The more strict we made our social interactions, the more rules we imposed on what was polite and what was not, the more we learned finesse, the less we fought with blade and spell, the more we duelled with words, some of them sharper than any edge a sword could carry.
And chief amongst all, most sacred of all unspoken social rules, was that one should never, never ask another for their age. It was not simply a breach of social decorum, it was a taboo of unimaginable proportions. Outright asking for another's age was tantamount to asking for their strength and weakness, to voicing an open challenge of violence. To abandon all our nobility, and reduce ourself to primal violence.
And yet despite all this, understanding dawned to me as well. She was scarcely more than a newborn babe. So many rules she could not know. So little of our race that she had been shown. In but a scant few centuries, how could anyone expect decency from her? Truthfully, her parents should never have let her leave the palace, or interact with guests.
Those thoughts must have been clear on my visage, the raw impact breaking my carefully maintained facade, for she began to laugh once more.
"Be wary of who you consider young. I am scarcely younger than dad. And if mother heard you say that, she'd kill you for it. As would many of my siblings." She made a small motion with her hands and my binds fell away, allowing me to join her on the cushions in a modicum of comfort. It was a far stretch from what I was used to, but I began to realize that a tale equal to that of the grand epochs of the past might just await me here.
"It would seem to be easy to assume that you are the one who sent out an invitation," I ventured.
"I am the one who invited you, yes."
"For what purpose?"
"To write down what happened. The truth. Before it gets twisted. Before the rest of your kind spin it into something that it is not. Before another fight happens and we're forced to defend ourselves again."
Her words, and their implications, stole my breath, yet she made no move to continue until I had regained it.
"Will you tell me, then? All that happened, all that transpired."
"I will. I have heard of you from mother. Of your reputation. Of your dedication to your craft. Of how you spread your works far and quickly, preventing others from altering it." She twisted around, folding her legs and sitting on them, looking truly like the young girl she was. "I suppose I'll have to start from the very beginning. Who I am matters little, in that. My parents, however, matter more. My mother, you will know. She is the Arch Maga. Orome'Astrala Veridian. Daughter of the late King and Queen. Killer of the late King and Queen. Dad, you will not know. For he is..." she shook her head softly. "He was Udzi. And he is the reason why the kingdom fell."
It is with great pride she regarded me as she said that. And with even greater pride when she continued.
"For you see... My mother loves him very, very much.
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