Absolute Fantasy: The Advanced Series.
Book 1: 'The Brilliant Age'.
Chapter 1: Enter, The World.
Episode 1: Exit, The Shadow Hold.
Febuarch 2, Tuesdawn 3510 A.S. The Brilliant Age.
A great ruin long overgrown by moss and fungi heads the tip of a tall hill. A ruin invisible to those without insight. Invisible to those without prior knowledge of its existence. A decadence to the fair universal perception of the mind. GreatArkana, imposing and embolding, the crown of the fortresses true strength. More than moss takes growth in the hold, more than fungi roots its structures. The Fortress is home to the greatest school of huntercraft in the entirety of 'Erath', the capital church of Hunters, 'BloodFell'.
Escaflore holds in his right hand, heavy-stringed carrion-beads, rubbing them in nervous rhythm. Each bead, black as void, brandishes a white condor at full wingspread, engraved by the finest craftsmen in the Continent of 'Centralis'. The marker and brandish of his school of huntercraft.
In the other he holds a single 'bleeding-coin', rubbing the macabre engravings ribboning the effigies in both head and tail. A repulsive, bruised, bleeding and beaten severed head crowns one side and a headless fair body, golden skinned, makes the tail.
Hes reading it like an embossiary, rhyming the eucharistic lines in his head. It's a habit, fermented from childhood. It gives him focus. Provides anchorage. It allows measured breath. Allows courage to face the throbbing anxiety. He sets himself against his white, hunter trained horse, Fells. He checks up on the girth and secures the saddle. Todays the big day. The moment he graduates from the Whetstone centered, capital church of Hunters, one of the few shadow holds in theshadow capital of the nation.
His eyes are dilated and appreciative of detail. The morning is much brighter and more radiant than it's been for years. His touch sensitivity is heightened. He can feel the moisture in the air down to individual drops, hitting and shattering on his skin. He could give an entire count of how many are breaking on his skin and how many are entrenched in his follicles. He can smell the air significantly better than he usually can. It smells of cold dew and soggy flowers. Of wet clay and ripening harvests. Todays a good day. Hes excited.
He gets his hunting alms from the church's head cleric, 'the greatly exalted martyrial eucharist, Hasbin WyrmTrodden of the BloodHouse WyrmTrodden', the greatest in his field of cleric craft in the whole continent. So, he's heard. He's glad he'll never see a face so ugly ever again.
His hunting alm is a single ring in an open case, emerald made with special engravings etched on the circumference. The etchings of Arkane Logic, representing an endless duplication of complex formulae. He isn't lost on the meaning. Hes been prepped for this moment for as long as he can remember. He takes the ring from a raised slab of rock, marble made, solid and overgrown by green lichen, placed right in the middle of the entire fort for ceremonial purposes. On it are the names of all the Hunters that have lived and graduated from the school. In taking the ring of alms, the fledgling Hunter takes on their wishes and hopes, their ambitions and anxieties, and beyond all, their mission, to quell or kill, till the end of the endless dream. It's a religion to them, a doctrine to live for and a faith to die for. And their god, 'the living dream'. Escaflore is one of the only few beings alive who could even move the ring let alone carry and wear it. The weight of it, proportional to the weight of expectations that now boulder him. He holds his hands in jubilee and closes his eyes in prayer before taking it. His faith means everything to him. This ceremony and the burden of those who came before him, means everything to him. He swears his dream into the fulfilment of their grand mission. Their dreams are his dreams now.
The ring of alms is a pocket ring. A conditioned high-ring. It allows the storage in a pocket dimension of anything at all regardless of size, number and weight but in turn, translates the weight inflicted on the pocket dimension onto the ring itself. So, the weight of the ring is directly equal to the weight of the inner contents. The limitation to it is only objects subjected to complete soulenvelopment are viable for storage. High level Arkane forging at its finest.
After lifting the ring, he imposes an Arkana on it. A branch expression of the Concepts Subject, of Sub-Subject, 'Gravity'. The Arkana technique halves the weight of the subject but at the cost of the imposer having to maintain a constant concentration on the subject. A grueling and unreasonable demand, however, Hunters can pull that feet off significantly easier and better than actual Mages can. The perks of the brutal torture and fly or die tactics imposed on 'the children of destiny,' during the duration of their training. They are, by the right and nature of birth, 'destined martyrs.'
The weight of the ring is still very significant even when halved. Not a problem for him but a worry when mounting his horse. He uses the same Arkana Technique on himself and boards Fells, holding onto her leather back saddle. An advanced duo-application of the technique, with an ever-greater strain on the consciousness.
His heart is thumping. The weight of this day dawns on him just when hes on the edge. On the verge of freedom. Eight years. For eight years he held on and survived. He took it as it came and day by day he kept living on. Today it all ends. Today he doesn't have to just survive. He can live. He can be alive. It's a chance of change. A chance to be the difference in his life. To be the difference in their lives. To start again and find meaning in life. Just him and Fells. All they have now is each other. All they will ever need is each other. Hes thought of this day for so long. Planned for this day for so long. He promised to face it with bravery, to face it with optimism. He does his best to do just that and takes a leap. A leap of faith.
Still holding onto his religious carrion beads and rubbing his bleeding coin, he wills Fells to move and she does just that. Holding tightly to the reins they see the outer world for the first time, far beyond the dampness of the rusty gates and the crackles of the old ruins made classes, they spot it, vast, endless nature as far as an eye can see, canvased in widespread highlands. A memory for the ages. An image of a lifetime.
They move forwards.
Into the sprawling nature of 'The Wayward Highlands'.
Episode 2: The Potential In The Unlikely Seed.
In the scope of the shadow fortress' architecture, vertical, high and reaching for the sky is a wondrous atelier. A mages laboratory existing in two different aspects of space at the same time. A product of the arcana subject branch, Concepts, of sub-subject Space. Violent Superpositioning, it's called. A feat that would tear down and destroy the source of enforcement had the source not been the great secret of the school BloodFell. The secret only the heads of the school and the royalty of the nation are aware of. 'The Living Fetus'.
Hasbin WyrmTrodden lights up a smoke in the 'schoolmasters' office. His body, persona, soul and mind existing in two different places at the same time. Every single action he takes, every thought he processes, every breath he asphyxiates, perfectly mirrored in two instances. He is both the subject and the reflection. It's almost like a taste of divinity. He doesn't like the taste of it. Too jarring and weird. It's been a long few days preparing for the graduation of a student. Even more so for this said student in particular. The schoolmaster, 'Riven SilverHand' and his assistant, 'the living doll', 'Janna', walk in on his cigar break.
"Can you not. Tis an odor so insufferable to any who prefer breathing through their nose." Riven scolds Hasbin for the thousandth time for his smoking quirk. He hates tobacco scent with a passion. It reminds him of a childhood of relentless beatings he would rather forget. Most Mages in Erath have similar experiences with their parental figures. It's an innate distinction that Mages are naturally defined as distant and egotistical. It's usually a matter of when not if, that that ego is applied and enforced when an offspring shows any inkling of superior talent or potential.
"Calm the fuck down Riven. Todays a day of worthy celebration for in the morrow, the world awakens to a new day. Bright, dazzling and hopeful. In the darkest of pits, we made a hero of kings. History shan't forget our names as easily after our labor so fortuitous. So, come on you old bag, light up a cigar, and toast to a world well saved."
"I would rather Janna have me geld with a fucking fork. Are you really that proud of it. I mean… The things you did to that child Hasbin. Even for us. Even for our task…" Riven looks at Janna, seeking moral reassurance. Janna stares back, puzzled. She knows he wants something but cant put a finger on it. She's too young to process unclear emotions. Living dolls mimic the nature and habits of life only through study and experience. For know Rivens' burdens are his and his alone to carry.
"The things I did? How rich. How about the things we all did. Tis a sin we carry us all. Tis a curse we burdened us all. The doer and the watcher are one in the eye of the victim and the gods. Denial shan't save thy soul 'Magus SilverHand'. My soul for the salvation of the world. What more could a Hunter ask. Why wouldn't this be the proudest moment of thine life." Hasbin takes in a deep breath of the roasting and sizzling tobacco and exhales it, complete indifference in his face. He means his talk.
"Means meeting the end, huh. An absurdly extreme expression of that principle, however, that principle nonetheless. In reason, tis what defines you Hunters, self-sacrifice for the good of the world. Most of your kind sacrifice their bodies, sacrifice their fates, sacrifice their hates. You on the hand go much farther. Your ready to damn your soul for an eternity if it meant others could have a life you never could. How extremist of you. How much do you really hate the concept of life. How much more so do you despise that the concept of existence soon follows it. That there is a confirmed afterlife for all of us." Riven nails the hammer to the joints with the precision of a plague doctor's bonesaw.
"You see jackass o jackass, tis the most basic definition of hunters, that we must bear the hatred of life and the scorn of an afterlife. For we, unlike you privileged, inheritance gobbling, succubus mages are born of hate and spawn in scorn. Try seeing the good in life when life sees no good in you. Besides if the 'afterlife theory' holds true, my kind are all headed for 'the living dream'. No damnation for me sunny. Can't say the same for you and your Hymeric religion. How is your great Queen Magika going to react to your docility."
"I wouldn't know. I'm an atheist. Magecraft isn't a religion like huntercraft. I don't have to dodge an arrow if the arrow doesn't exist to begin with. If there is an afterlife, I'll only accept it if I build it all with my own two hands. Anything besides that, not interested. And besides don't think you're the only one knowledgeable on foreign religions. Tell me, can a living dream exist without a living nightmare. Who exactly do you think in hunter mythos goes to the living nightmare. And, just how morally better do you really think you are over them. And how mighty of you to look down on Mage inheritance when you literally do the same thing. You have to, lest, hunters would die out. And not to mention how mages pass down treasures, magnum opuses and secret wills through their BloodHouses, while your kind preys on orphaned, curse riddled children, to torture the skill out of them, just for there to always be more evil throughout time. Like taking a cup of water every day from a lake and expecting it to run dry when you're seventy."
"The living nightmare does exist. Your living in it. Look around you. Century after century the 'Continent of Centralis' is plagued by war, the goal of any of the strive, never achieved. Children are kidnapped in the 'Nation of Artorica' and our high and mighty 'Knight King' turns a blind eye to it. Monsters rewrite universal principles and all beings are victim to their whims. And don't forget about the terror of 'the church of defiance', four hundred thousand people, an entire region in our nation, incinerated in 'true fire', the weapon they used, 'the Atrocity,' well at large with the potential of four hundred thousand more. If this isn't hell, then what is Riven. Hunters though born of blood and spawned from gore exist for a reason. We exist for a reason. For a purpose much grander than the life of a single individual. No matter the cost imposed on us, we are the heroes the world needs. That's the meaning and reason given to children born from and fraught with the greatest of curses. Babes meant to be thrown out into the sewer for the feast of rats or scorched in public burnings, along with the corpse of their mother. For this meaning, I will gladly be the monster the world needs, for this purpose, I will damn my soul to be history's heel. I guess at the end of the day, no mage would ever understand that."
"Of course, we wouldn't. Mages are more individualists than fucking cats. If it meant an easy life, we would watch the world burn. How could I ever understand you."
"Even then, that child will be 'theSalvation of Erath'. He will achieve more than cumulative effort of my kind, spread throughout centuries. Because he exists, my soul is saved. At the end of the day, a nobody like me mattered in the greater cog of things. I've fulfilled my purpose and I'll leave tomorrow for the mainland nation. I have some unfinished business there."
"Facts even a non-hunter can see. The boy is something special indeed. 'The salvation of Erath', huh, even a pessimistic, atheistic, stickler like me can see it. He might yet save our souls."
Episode 3: The Breadth Of Nature.
Leaving the great worn gates of the hold behind them, they're greeted by boundless vistas of Mountains. And at the centerstage of the peaks, the greatest of all trees, vertically daunting, higher than the mountains that canvas it, reaching and disappearing into the heights of silver rayed clouds, with leaves greener than emeralds and a trunk born of unmelting snow. The tree never wilts. The pieces never fall. For the tree is a 'boon of faith'. A reward form the Highest of Divinities, bestowed to the 'Mer Ruids' that worship its creator. A remembrance of the might and right of nature. 'The Breath,' unending and all encompassing, materialized and wielded by the religious sect, 'Oak-Rivora', the predominant Mer Ruid tribe in the area.
Heavy clouds swirl and swallow the white and green colossal giant. He can hear the roaring updrafts of hot wind adjacent to the tree many miles away, reacting to the mass of the tree and the temperate difference created by its unmelting snow. It's the sound of a great waterfall.
He can feel the uphill wind moving against his body. So many new scents are present. Scents sourced from wooden barks and rustling leaves, basking in the natural scape of the forests. Scents sourced from flowing and gleaming rivers moving through the nape of the valley. Scents sourced from the Mer Ruids in their scattered numbers living in and along nature. Scents sourced from creatures alien to this reality. Alien to Erath. Those he trained to calm or kill for the last eight years of his life. His dream. His chosen purpose. His 'religious operandi'.
Fells also smells them, though not as distinct or scaled as Escaflore. The blaze from the blue rising sun is enlivening, warming, enriching and soothing. He is overwhelmed by a cluster of estranged emotion. The world is beautiful. Life's worth living, after all.
Escaflore holds the reins. He can feel his mare's eagerness easily matching his own. He won't hold her back anymore. Never again. He wills her to be wild. To be free. She rears in celebration. Balancing on her hind legs and burst in roars. He can read her body language better than he can most languages. She initiates a vow. A vow to never look back. A vow to never be bound. A vow to never be broken. Never again. He agrees, and affirms her vow.
She makes a trot downhill, moving slightly faster than a walk. She ups it to a canter, going smoother and faster. She gallops and bursts into full sprint, matching her top speeds.
The wind's rushes violently, thrashing and stabbing. She's doubling the speeds of a regular horse. Doubling the enthusiasm too. The world feels lighter, light feels distant, sound feels muttered. For miles, there is nothing but the two of them. Boundless solitude, endless nature. There is freedom to be found in the nature. Hope to be remembered in the wild. Here identity can be lost. Drowned out by the chirps of birds and rustle of trees. Here second chances can be born. Reincarnations made manifest in real-time. Escapism and fantasy, made into locality and reality. It's a living dream and Escaflore is a living dreamer.
They cross tilted highlands and flattened plateaus, cross the necks of rivers and sleaves of valleys. They move through animal populated forests and grove perimeters. The world, unbounded and unbent, is silent. Erath, boundless and alive, is brought to complete calm. Only the howl of the wind can be heard. It's at around sunset that they draw near the first sign of human settlement. At sunset they draw near 'the Fisherside village.'
Episode 4: The Fisherside Village.
The sun was dusking and the sky was turning into a pungent blue. There was a rush from the villagers to go back indoors before the moon became the prominence in the sky. The men were coming back from the lake rushing to dock their boats and hang their nets. The women were closing up their shops. From grocery shops to sewing huts to bakery kiosks. It was a fermented practice. Bettered by the observation of children, now the adults, and the practice of the adults, as learned from their own parents. This has been happening for quite a while as Escaflore can see.
It's usually very hard for people to notice his presence even if he isn't trying to hide it, but he came to expect that they eventually do. He noted that the first to notice him were the children and the cats. The cats especially. He really loved cats. Though they take a long while before taking a liking to him. They are some of the most sensitive animals when it comes to the perception of curses. And all hunters, one way or another, are born of brutal curses. Escaflore especially.
Like clockwork, the adults notice him too, eventually. They recognized what he was too. The horse he was on, the finest breed of the finest breed, was not a common sight in peasant villages. Nor was his attire, queer even to the massively diverse, free nation ofArtorica. Henceforth, it was a common give away. He got mixed expressions from his presence. From the cats to the children, and from the women to the men. Each one had a unique set of ideas and opinions on him.
There was one jarring oddity though. He could feel it in his skin. Feel it in his soul. Feel something, he was most definitely not supposed to notice. The presence, of a fifth set of opinions. The direction it came from, a giant straw-doll effigy idol, made from kelp and rotting vines. As tall as a great pine tree, with massively wide proportions placed right in the entrance to the village. An idol of the 'Hordenic religion', the predominant religion in Centralis in the previous age of history, now relegated to its minor fourth alternative. Outrelevanced by three newly introduced faiths. Hymeric, Valorian and the Hishal.
On noticing the presence starring at him he immediately hides any expression of the fact in his body, persona, soul and mind. However, it notices regardless. It reads his soul like an open book. An unimaginable feat from Escaflore's perspective. No humanoid would be in any way capable of a feat like that. Not even an 'apparition' would. That thing starring at him, is something else. Some form of divinity. He stares back at it boldly and provocatively, reinforcing his presence and stature, to a perfect flow of imposition. There are no flaws in the stream emanating from his body. No panic, no fear, no hesitation. His flow represents, 'absolute strength'. He would cut down even a god if he had to, and, the god can sense it too. The two of them reach an impasse the byproduct of an hour long standoff. The god's warry of him and he can sense it, as clear as a ray of light. Through intention, he proposes he just keeps walking, he has no interest in it at all. And through intention, the god communicates,
"Were it that simple. Oh, the folly of man, to know that which is secret for a reason. Oh, the folly of man, to discover that which is forbade for a reason. Actions breed consequence. Ignorance draws the unknowable. We will meet again boy, be it in person or substitution. Neigh. We must meet again child, be it in reach or proxy. For a secret worth the destruction of all the realms has been discovered. An accursed fly has tread into the soup of the gods. If you were to ever scorn the curse that you are, oh curse of curses, remember this as the greatest one." The god reads the fact that Escaflore had to actively read into the direction of the presence he felt, prying into its nature, motives and subsequent intentions. That's the only way the god was able to notice he knew. Stare into the abyss, and the abyss stares back. Pry into the abyss, and the abyss pries back. The Divinity is intelligent, and skilled to levels he never thought possible. He sought it in an ego that he could handle what came out of it. But now it seems, strength is only relative. The challenge excites him.
"I'll be waiting. Expect little, and be shocked by plenty."
The god feels a warm, familiar sense of nostalgia. It's been a long time since it encountered one so stupidly brave. It emanates a smirk at him, and a numbing presence of respect.
He moves his horse around searching for lesser hostility and attention. He wants to try finding a place to sleep for the night. Normally, in the church capital, he was not allowed to sleep on consecutive days. A training regimen for peak mental awareness and spiritual focus. He can now go several days without any sleep and maintain his condition. He would like to rest up though. Out of curiosity, for the remembrance. For a feeling and experience long forgotten. And an effort to acquire the pieces back.
He deducts the most likely location for an inn and gets his guess right. It's in a building as far away from the fish smell, as possible, and as erected in view of passersby as able. He gets off Fells and confronts an old man lying on a hemic outside the door. To call him old is possibly half an exaggeration. There's a queer presence to his physique. Even the way he sleeps, he can never move or twitch a muscle unconsciously, he's as still as a boulder. Possibly, as immovable as one too. Even his breath is measured and calculated, signaling he's only half asleep. Taking turns switching one part of the brain off and turning on another. It colors Escaflore impressed. He's probably the owner since no owner would allow just some slouch the luxury of taking the entrance space since it's not a proper look for the business.
"Ah ye want. If it be accommodations then give the doe and be off with yah. Mm. Interesting fellow you be. That hair, that attire, that horse, those necklaced beads. A bleeding coin in a pocket, I expect too. You're a 'Phius'. I've seen yer kind before. Not a rare sight considering, you know, the church uphill, hidden somewhere near here. A secret supposed to be but a dog turd secret if yah ask me. Haha." The old man bursts into uninterrupted laughter for a while. Escaflore is indifferent to it. Mostly. The encounter he just had has him off balance. He doesn't show it, but, the god tried to crush him and kill him with it's overwhelming presence during the standoff. It didn't work though. Not on him it wouldn't. Due to the nature of his unique curse, bestowed on him during the events of his birth. The natures of his unique curses.
"You know they say, rhyming makes gurgles sound smarter," Escaflore retorts.
"Settle down, calm your tits will yah. I just be jesting young boy. You'll find no prejudice from me. All gods are a business and all religions are seeded-companies. If faith be thee currency, then it's no business for a greedy crook like me. Gold be me god and lust my life bound religion. Capital and Investment, ye ever seen a greater beauty?" the old man lays his faith and philosophies bare. Bare for the stranger hunter to see, misreading Escaflore's intentions. He doesn't really care about religious prejudice. No hunters really would.
"Yes. A lot. Possibly." Not really. Everything Escaflore has ever seen boils down to, a drawing in a book, a painting from a continent famous artist or a superpositioned, 'limage subject', in a 'magik-orb', focused and translated by a 'starforger telescope'.
"Yer still young. Yer still blind. Yer still a dumbass. Even cleavage, I bet, ye hasn't seen. Anyways mister Hunter, I go by the name, 'Lonspear OxHand'. And how do I be of service."
"Accommodations would be fine indeed, Ser OxHand. For my mare and myself. I have a little bit of godhood for you if you catch what I'm throwing. Gold. I have gold." He lays a verbal trap with the 'ser' adjective hoping to derive more information from his reactions. He reasons the disposition the old man has can only be from, 'aKnight of impossible renown.'
"No need to sully me intellect sunny. If it be about gold then call me 'Arch Scholar'of the gold, Sur OxHand, and shove a fist up my arse. If yah catches what I'm throwing. And it be common decency to introduce your name once a names been introduced to you. You'll need common decency to survive in the real world even for super humans like ye." He doesn't trip or give information in the slightest. His heart rate maintains a constant rhythm, his breath unending composure, even his hormonal smells dancing through his mind like a borealis has the same unreadability he has. He for sure, is one of the strongest people in the entire nation. An unproportioned beast on a blade. Escaflore's assessment of him, a true assessment born of experience. Being taught in the capital church of hunters, he had the perks of meeting the strongest hands and the greatest minds in the entirety of Centralis. He makes most of them pale in comparison. By far. And besides that, he makes a good point. A point Escaflore knows all too well. To survive in the world, he read about only in books all his life, he'll need to rely on the reality of things rather than the fictional depictions of them.
"Apologies. The names Escaflore. Only Escaflore. I'm a 'Surless'. My friends call me Escaf. I hope your widespread indifference to discrimination extends to that fact too. It would be a pain in the rear otherwise. The outside world cares for the dumbest values possible." He is sensitive to the fact that he has no BloodHouse. No family, no second name, no lineage or history. Most hunters are forced to abandon their sur titles by the family that abandons them. It is quite possibly the only soft spot to the manufactured superhumans called hunters. Wishing for a home to belong to, in the stead of the one that abandoned them.
"Nice to meet yah Escaf, ye son of a bitch. Worry not dear boy, my indifference does indeed reach that far and extend that high. And don't assume the outside world is all bad. If yah here that means ye chose to live on in spite of the horrors those beasts of men inflict on you children. If you chose to be alive, seeing the world with optimism, blinder to the bad and more open to the good, will make your healing a lot smoother and yer new life a lot easier, if not better. And pardon me from sounding like a jackass but you be one of the few graduates I see reference friends. Who are your friends who, like I, refuse to call you by your maiden name?"
"Cats. I had a lot of cat friends growing up at the church."