Post by Archer on Jun 17, 2008 19:22:30 GMT
Imagine, if you will, a path between the mountains. Extended edges of immortal rock, staggering haphazardly from the cliff’s face, cracking, crumbling, slowly decaying with age and erosion. The occasional weed sprouts from a split in the rocks, its roots taking firm hold against their home. Paths such as this duck and weave their way all over the mountains of Bedoe; many have no beginning, some have no end. But some extend from the mountain’s base all the way to its peak. Very few of these unbroken pathways exist, and if choosing randomly, it’s almost impossible to follow a sole path all the way to the top.
However, choose randomly we shall, leaving one of the many little villages that naturally form around these mountain-bound entrances, and beginning our ascent into the heavens. The path starts out wide, seemingly at one with both the mountain and the ground, but soon it becomes narrow, raged, and hard to traverse with ease. Clumps of out-growing rocks obscure the path; the occasional weed soon becomes whole thorn bushes that sprout from the ground like explosions of plant life.
The path peters out, slowly being reclaimed by the living rock of the mountain, until it shortly becomes just another crag of the mountain’s spire. But our journey does not stop here; if one were to look closely at the side of the cliff face, they would see thinly etched lines, an arch of imbedded pattern amongst the natural cracks of the rock. Two arching curves, which meet and then plummet at a vertical line at the centre; a simple design, yet an effective door none the less.
Past the reaches of the door, and we enter a tunnel; a tunnel carved perfectly from the rock, as if a beam of light had passed through and scourged everything in its path. The walls were solid, smooth, and untouched, the hand of neither man nor god having touched them. Deeper, deeper, deeper in to the mountain, any light cast in from an open door now eradicated. And after what seems like an eternity of journey, we find our target.
The cave carved from the mountain was built especially to seem cosy, and yet also uncomfortable in one complicated mixture. A table sat at one end of the room, carved ornately from granite, polished to a smooth sheen. A lone chair was situated beneath it, a simple design made from wood. A stone bookshelf protruded from the wall, a few hundred volumes resting on its shelves, a few gathering specks of dust, but most not left unused enough for such a feat.
The room then opened out into a larger area; a bed lay on one side, an area for preparing food and other substances on the other. The centre lay wide and open, bearing all manner of damages, from cracks to scorch marks, the scars of endless experiments and tests on and around it. Situated in the centre of this proverbial warzone lay a sole figure, his once-white tank top stained a dull gray, khaki trousers similarly so, and a book of Dragonian History between his fingers.
Archer’s eyes were transfixed as the book portrayed more heroic actions of the legendary Kilix Gyro; not to mention his trustworthy partner and scribe. He read on in awe as the Liixan warrior was saved once again by his accomplice, or as another genius invention was built that would further human and Dragonian lives alike. And he found himself smiling with strange satisfaction whenever he read the caption beneath each page; “as dictated by the scribe of Kilix Gyro; the right-honourable Kenneth G Barnaby.”
He stood, with a smile of knowledge played across his face. “History is so reliable...” he said quietly, although there was no-one around to hear it. Closing the book, he placed it down on the ground beside him, before taking a single piece of chalk from his pocket, spinning it around his finger twice before crouching again, returning to his pursuit of his other passion; Alchemy.
Before him lay a circle, which was drawn out with impossible precision in chalk on the ground. Various lines darted hither and dither in and around its circumference, forming triangles, hexagons, squares, and many other shapes within the circle. At the centre of this hubbub of chalk markings lay a common toaster, broken into shattered lumps of metal. Smiling, Archer slid his chalk across the rock floor, white trails being left behind his precise, unforgiving markings. It was only a few minutes later when he took his chalk away from the ground, the circle complete.
“Well, here goes nothing,” he muttered, placing his palms flat against the ground. The circle began to glow with golden light, as an unknown energy spread itself across the markings on the ground beneath him. But then, moments before the transmutation was about to commence, the cave shook suddenly. “What the fu—“ cried Archer, but there was nothing he could do. A lone piece of chalk bounced from the table, a white skid mark casting a streak across the perfectly crafted circle. A blinding light erupted from the Transmutation; the pieces of toaster levitated ominously, their substance twisting and turning, as the rock beneath them began to rise, as if it were liquid, mixing and moulding itself with their form.
Covering his eyes from the light, Archer crawled back to the wall of the cave, his mind aquiver with confused thoughts. How could the cave have shaken? It was deep set into the mountain; it would take an impossible force to create such an effect. And what was happening within his transmutation, the light from which now dimming, leaving the young alchemist to observe what he had created.
“Oh my god...” he muttered, his face contorted somewhere between disgust and awe. He crawled slowly back towards the circle; though all remnants of it were now eradicated. Where it had once been, there was simply a crater, a bowl in the floor of the cave. And in the middle of the bowl stood a small, metal figure, looking around itself, glancing down as it moved its fingers with ease.
It looked at Archer. Its metal jaw opened; it looked as if it would speak. Archer, bewildered as he was, listened intently to his unintentional creations’ first words.
“SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
He soon wished he hadn’t...
However, choose randomly we shall, leaving one of the many little villages that naturally form around these mountain-bound entrances, and beginning our ascent into the heavens. The path starts out wide, seemingly at one with both the mountain and the ground, but soon it becomes narrow, raged, and hard to traverse with ease. Clumps of out-growing rocks obscure the path; the occasional weed soon becomes whole thorn bushes that sprout from the ground like explosions of plant life.
The path peters out, slowly being reclaimed by the living rock of the mountain, until it shortly becomes just another crag of the mountain’s spire. But our journey does not stop here; if one were to look closely at the side of the cliff face, they would see thinly etched lines, an arch of imbedded pattern amongst the natural cracks of the rock. Two arching curves, which meet and then plummet at a vertical line at the centre; a simple design, yet an effective door none the less.
Past the reaches of the door, and we enter a tunnel; a tunnel carved perfectly from the rock, as if a beam of light had passed through and scourged everything in its path. The walls were solid, smooth, and untouched, the hand of neither man nor god having touched them. Deeper, deeper, deeper in to the mountain, any light cast in from an open door now eradicated. And after what seems like an eternity of journey, we find our target.
The cave carved from the mountain was built especially to seem cosy, and yet also uncomfortable in one complicated mixture. A table sat at one end of the room, carved ornately from granite, polished to a smooth sheen. A lone chair was situated beneath it, a simple design made from wood. A stone bookshelf protruded from the wall, a few hundred volumes resting on its shelves, a few gathering specks of dust, but most not left unused enough for such a feat.
The room then opened out into a larger area; a bed lay on one side, an area for preparing food and other substances on the other. The centre lay wide and open, bearing all manner of damages, from cracks to scorch marks, the scars of endless experiments and tests on and around it. Situated in the centre of this proverbial warzone lay a sole figure, his once-white tank top stained a dull gray, khaki trousers similarly so, and a book of Dragonian History between his fingers.
Archer’s eyes were transfixed as the book portrayed more heroic actions of the legendary Kilix Gyro; not to mention his trustworthy partner and scribe. He read on in awe as the Liixan warrior was saved once again by his accomplice, or as another genius invention was built that would further human and Dragonian lives alike. And he found himself smiling with strange satisfaction whenever he read the caption beneath each page; “as dictated by the scribe of Kilix Gyro; the right-honourable Kenneth G Barnaby.”
He stood, with a smile of knowledge played across his face. “History is so reliable...” he said quietly, although there was no-one around to hear it. Closing the book, he placed it down on the ground beside him, before taking a single piece of chalk from his pocket, spinning it around his finger twice before crouching again, returning to his pursuit of his other passion; Alchemy.
Before him lay a circle, which was drawn out with impossible precision in chalk on the ground. Various lines darted hither and dither in and around its circumference, forming triangles, hexagons, squares, and many other shapes within the circle. At the centre of this hubbub of chalk markings lay a common toaster, broken into shattered lumps of metal. Smiling, Archer slid his chalk across the rock floor, white trails being left behind his precise, unforgiving markings. It was only a few minutes later when he took his chalk away from the ground, the circle complete.
“Well, here goes nothing,” he muttered, placing his palms flat against the ground. The circle began to glow with golden light, as an unknown energy spread itself across the markings on the ground beneath him. But then, moments before the transmutation was about to commence, the cave shook suddenly. “What the fu—“ cried Archer, but there was nothing he could do. A lone piece of chalk bounced from the table, a white skid mark casting a streak across the perfectly crafted circle. A blinding light erupted from the Transmutation; the pieces of toaster levitated ominously, their substance twisting and turning, as the rock beneath them began to rise, as if it were liquid, mixing and moulding itself with their form.
Covering his eyes from the light, Archer crawled back to the wall of the cave, his mind aquiver with confused thoughts. How could the cave have shaken? It was deep set into the mountain; it would take an impossible force to create such an effect. And what was happening within his transmutation, the light from which now dimming, leaving the young alchemist to observe what he had created.
“Oh my god...” he muttered, his face contorted somewhere between disgust and awe. He crawled slowly back towards the circle; though all remnants of it were now eradicated. Where it had once been, there was simply a crater, a bowl in the floor of the cave. And in the middle of the bowl stood a small, metal figure, looking around itself, glancing down as it moved its fingers with ease.
It looked at Archer. Its metal jaw opened; it looked as if it would speak. Archer, bewildered as he was, listened intently to his unintentional creations’ first words.
“SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
He soon wished he hadn’t...
