Map note: the polar sea and solar gorges aren't in any particular location other than 'very far north' and 'scattered about the desert' respectively. I'm not assigning a size (or number) to either of them, they're just there as natural-ish inhospitable landforms to play with.
- Last Seen: 5 mos ago
- Old Guild Username: Antarctic Termite
- Joined: 10 yrs ago
- Posts: 3688 (0.98 / day)
- VMs: 1
-
Username history
- Antarctic Termite 10 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
Lord Zee,
MarshalSolgriev,
pppppp,
urukhai,
Alby47,
Crispy Octopus
Status
Recent Statuses
6 yrs ago
Current
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
1
like
6 yrs ago
If you're not trying to romance the Pokemon, what's the fucking point?
7
likes
6 yrs ago
Can't help but read 'woah' as a regular 'wuh', but 'whoa' as a deep, masculine 'HOO-AH!'
1
like
6 yrs ago
That's patently untrue. I planted some potassium the other day, and no matter how much I watered it, all I got was explosions.
2
likes
6 yrs ago
on holiday for five days. if you need me, toss a rock into the fuckin' desert and I'll whisper in your dreams
3
likes
Bio
According to the IRC, I'm a low-grade troll. They're probably not wrong.
Most Recent Posts
The sun shone harshly upon a new world. Moisture fled the endless desert, sheltering in the wide crater punched into the face of Galbar. Day after day bleached the rock white and red and ivory-yellow, leaving dunes and mesas and vast salt pans where there could have been life.
There was... a lake.
High in the north of the planet, where the seasons stretched the days into long hours of twilight and the nights into maddening gloom, the mid-summer sun rolled over a great salt plain. The land stared up at the sky, and went blind, losing all solidity and distinction, melting into an endless puddle of mirage, like water. Winter came, and night, and the mirage froze solid, and when the sun rose again months later, there was nothing left but ice.
Ice, white and flat in every direction. It multiplied the light tenfold, and the land was as blinding to the eye as it was blind itself, an inescapable wash of cold sunlight that cut deep into the retina. Even when the chilling winds of death swept moisture over the surface of the ice, it came in an endless, shapeless mist of grey, such that a wanderer could be lost between the cold below him and the cold above, unable to tell the sky from the earth.
A lone crystal strider cracked itself out of the ice, and staggered starving through that place, its optic veins flooded with empty stimulus, yet unable to find so much as a single rock to ponder for its sustenance. Searching, searching, searching, it waited for the coming of night, when it would be able to subsist on meagre meals of astrology and aurorae until the coming of merciless Day.
No, not like this.
It was bright, bright, bright...
...But there WAS a lake.
Midsummer came again, and there was a second mirage, a little further south, connected to the first by a channel. Winter passed, and when the sun shone upon the ice, it melted.
Great floes wailed and screamed and groaned against one another as they broke apart. Wind and waves broke them into curious shapes, beautifully blue and dusted with snow, ready to roll and break at any moment, sending any would-be ice walker deep into the crushing darkness of the polar water. Pools of pure blue melt filled upon the white flats and froze solid again. Galbar turned, and the water became slush, then brash, then ice once more.
Currents of lethal freezing brine and life-giving oxygen circulated with the motions of the ice and the sea and the wind. Krill sifted food from the open waters while they could, and when the ice came again, their starved bodies were gnawed upon by starfish that starved in turn. Here and there, a seal eked out a living on cold-blooded fish, desperately packing on fat before the dark and the cold came again. Starving each winter, yet unable to leave the only source of water in the desert, the fish caught in this trap clung on from summer to summer. This world was ruled by the passage of the Sun.
There was... a hand.
Wavering rays of sunlight cut across the vast desert, like claws, like knives. They tore up the dry surface of Galbar, raising up a hot and angry cloud, and through this cloud the sun gouged and tore at the earth like a demented animal, ripping up stone and sand as if searching for a memory.
No, not that hand.
The solar gorges were deep, walled by hard bedrock that would not be eroded by wind. Their edges had been raised high, like welts of broken flesh under the scourge, blocking the dust storms that would have mercifully blocked the sun. At the bottom of each valley, air circled and circled, unable to escape, growing hotter, hotter, hotter, until at last night came and the earth was permitted to cool.
There was another.
A small, bright beam of light wandered the face of Galbar, flashing hither and thither until at last it came upon the Tree. There it shone, from the first break of dawn to the last moment of dusk, a straight, clear beam connecting the life of the earth with the light of the heavens above.
Everyone with eyes to see, saw; from the far west of the crater hemisphere to the east, from the crystalline ice-striders to the worshipful crow-people, from the goats to the goblins, they all saw the Guiding Ray, and knew that where it led was the center of all things, the birthplace of the universe, the seat of all gods, and it could not be hidden, come storm, come dust, until night.
The Tree of Life grew a bright and healthy green in the light of the Ray, and blossomed. And the blossoms blew on a gentle wind to the hollow heart of the Tree, where the sun gazed down into the Scroll and saw the name that was written upon it, as it had been, as it would always be: the Itzala.
Ah yes, thought the Sun. There I am.
There was... a lake.
High in the north of the planet, where the seasons stretched the days into long hours of twilight and the nights into maddening gloom, the mid-summer sun rolled over a great salt plain. The land stared up at the sky, and went blind, losing all solidity and distinction, melting into an endless puddle of mirage, like water. Winter came, and night, and the mirage froze solid, and when the sun rose again months later, there was nothing left but ice.
Ice, white and flat in every direction. It multiplied the light tenfold, and the land was as blinding to the eye as it was blind itself, an inescapable wash of cold sunlight that cut deep into the retina. Even when the chilling winds of death swept moisture over the surface of the ice, it came in an endless, shapeless mist of grey, such that a wanderer could be lost between the cold below him and the cold above, unable to tell the sky from the earth.
A lone crystal strider cracked itself out of the ice, and staggered starving through that place, its optic veins flooded with empty stimulus, yet unable to find so much as a single rock to ponder for its sustenance. Searching, searching, searching, it waited for the coming of night, when it would be able to subsist on meagre meals of astrology and aurorae until the coming of merciless Day.
No, not like this.
It was bright, bright, bright...
...But there WAS a lake.
Midsummer came again, and there was a second mirage, a little further south, connected to the first by a channel. Winter passed, and when the sun shone upon the ice, it melted.
Great floes wailed and screamed and groaned against one another as they broke apart. Wind and waves broke them into curious shapes, beautifully blue and dusted with snow, ready to roll and break at any moment, sending any would-be ice walker deep into the crushing darkness of the polar water. Pools of pure blue melt filled upon the white flats and froze solid again. Galbar turned, and the water became slush, then brash, then ice once more.
Currents of lethal freezing brine and life-giving oxygen circulated with the motions of the ice and the sea and the wind. Krill sifted food from the open waters while they could, and when the ice came again, their starved bodies were gnawed upon by starfish that starved in turn. Here and there, a seal eked out a living on cold-blooded fish, desperately packing on fat before the dark and the cold came again. Starving each winter, yet unable to leave the only source of water in the desert, the fish caught in this trap clung on from summer to summer. This world was ruled by the passage of the Sun.
There was... a hand.
Wavering rays of sunlight cut across the vast desert, like claws, like knives. They tore up the dry surface of Galbar, raising up a hot and angry cloud, and through this cloud the sun gouged and tore at the earth like a demented animal, ripping up stone and sand as if searching for a memory.
No, not that hand.
The solar gorges were deep, walled by hard bedrock that would not be eroded by wind. Their edges had been raised high, like welts of broken flesh under the scourge, blocking the dust storms that would have mercifully blocked the sun. At the bottom of each valley, air circled and circled, unable to escape, growing hotter, hotter, hotter, until at last night came and the earth was permitted to cool.
There was another.
A small, bright beam of light wandered the face of Galbar, flashing hither and thither until at last it came upon the Tree. There it shone, from the first break of dawn to the last moment of dusk, a straight, clear beam connecting the life of the earth with the light of the heavens above.
Everyone with eyes to see, saw; from the far west of the crater hemisphere to the east, from the crystalline ice-striders to the worshipful crow-people, from the goats to the goblins, they all saw the Guiding Ray, and knew that where it led was the center of all things, the birthplace of the universe, the seat of all gods, and it could not be hidden, come storm, come dust, until night.
The Tree of Life grew a bright and healthy green in the light of the Ray, and blossomed. And the blossoms blew on a gentle wind to the hollow heart of the Tree, where the sun gazed down into the Scroll and saw the name that was written upon it, as it had been, as it would always be: the Itzala.
Ah yes, thought the Sun. There I am.
The Scroll collided with the rock, and there the heat of it singed a hole into the Veil, its edges ragged and lined with sizzling embers. And no sooner was this hole torn than did brutish tusks and tendrils rip into it and tear it open, and in a black dust-cloud the outer horde surged forth, mercifully hidden by the very smoke they kicked up.
The vanishing wisps of black mist above the lake of warm gold were instantly replenished by the onslaught. Fins and wings unseen skidded across the surface of the lake, scattering droplets of hot gold into the roiling cloud of darkness. Horrible things swarmed unseen above the golden light, and another, like horrible thing spasmed below, deep in the liquid shining gold.
It felt their passage and heard their howls, longing mindlessly to join them in their conquest of all things, driven by a hideous instinct to defile and grow, a mouthless sightless skinless need to strain against the world, to scream… this thing that had no skin, no brain, no teeth, this embryo awash with warm liquid gold, that hadn't any blood to call its own.
The black mist roiled around the lake, and incubated it.
But the Scroll was resilient, and pure, and hot. It was aflame with its own clarity of purpose. Its light burned off the black mist, dissolving it once more into nothing, and the horde seethed away like a swarm of vermin into the deep folds of the Veil. Deep in the lake of gold, the seed that was planted felt that heat, the cleansing heat from which its soft womb could not protect it, the blast that would rip its tender body apart.
Then it felt the heat no more. For there was one last dark thing that remained in this place, and that thing caught the whole of the lake under Its palm and hid it all at once, though the Scroll charred Its flesh. For one last, crucial moment, the Hand of Mysteries sheltered the lake and what grew inside it with Its own body.
Go, It seemed to say. Become what you are.
Then the Hand was gone, leaving only Its ring and seal, and the lake began to stir. The embryo felt for the first time a current, a brutal whirling flow where there had only been eddies and ripples before. The lake of warm gold was draining- not outwards, for it had no shore, nor downwards, for it had no bed, but draining nonetheless, somewhere far away, away from this realm of dream…
The vanishing wisps of black mist above the lake of warm gold were instantly replenished by the onslaught. Fins and wings unseen skidded across the surface of the lake, scattering droplets of hot gold into the roiling cloud of darkness. Horrible things swarmed unseen above the golden light, and another, like horrible thing spasmed below, deep in the liquid shining gold.
It felt their passage and heard their howls, longing mindlessly to join them in their conquest of all things, driven by a hideous instinct to defile and grow, a mouthless sightless skinless need to strain against the world, to scream… this thing that had no skin, no brain, no teeth, this embryo awash with warm liquid gold, that hadn't any blood to call its own.
The black mist roiled around the lake, and incubated it.
But the Scroll was resilient, and pure, and hot. It was aflame with its own clarity of purpose. Its light burned off the black mist, dissolving it once more into nothing, and the horde seethed away like a swarm of vermin into the deep folds of the Veil. Deep in the lake of gold, the seed that was planted felt that heat, the cleansing heat from which its soft womb could not protect it, the blast that would rip its tender body apart.
Then it felt the heat no more. For there was one last dark thing that remained in this place, and that thing caught the whole of the lake under Its palm and hid it all at once, though the Scroll charred Its flesh. For one last, crucial moment, the Hand of Mysteries sheltered the lake and what grew inside it with Its own body.
Go, It seemed to say. Become what you are.
Then the Hand was gone, leaving only Its ring and seal, and the lake began to stir. The embryo felt for the first time a current, a brutal whirling flow where there had only been eddies and ripples before. The lake of warm gold was draining- not outwards, for it had no shore, nor downwards, for it had no bed, but draining nonetheless, somewhere far away, away from this realm of dream…
I've put myself in an awkward space right now for interaction since I wanted to build the 'Itzala is still growing' effect, but if anyone wants to mess around in the pre-creation dreamtime after their intro post, the 'lake of gold under the black mist' is fine to interact with or use as a backdrop to your shenanigans if you so choose.
Wtf, you guys are still making these?
We're as surprised as you are!
*bursts through the Veil, kool-aid man style*
Hello and welcome to all players! Let's have a wonderful time together.
Oh yeah.
Hello and welcome to all players! Let's have a wonderful time together.
Oh yeah.
It came to pass that, beneath the darkness that preceded the world, there was a golden lake, glittering and hot. The mists of blackness drifted above it, and a gentle current rippled below. This lake had no shore, no source, and no bed, for it led to itself in every which way, surface to surface and depth to depth.
And this lake had no name, for it was yet to be called into being. For indeed, although it seemed not so, this lake of warm gold was the Sun, the nameless Sun, the Sun that was to be.
And it came to pass that the veil was pierced, and a strong and wizened Hand reached out through the tear that It had made, through the black mist and over the lake of gold whose light rolled gently on Its knuckles and palm. On that Hand was borne an ancient ring of iron, and around Its sinewy wrist an unmarked silver band. It descended down towards the lake of warm gold with its fingers outstretched, in the sign of the Hand of Mysteries.
And on the very fingertip of the Hand was pushed forth a Seed, which plunged into the lake of sparkling gold. Deep, deeply did the Hand push down that seed, planting it on the very heart of the Sun that was to be, where the warm current rippled and the gold-orange light of the lake washed it all around.
And then the deft Hand did withdraw from the lake of the nameless Sun, and was dripping in hot gold, gold that ran in gilded rivulets down the length of Its forearm and wrist and fingers. Without spilling a single drop, the Hand rose out of the black mist that lay over the lake of warm gold, and bent towards the Scroll that lay in the centre of all things that were to come. And with the gold that flowed down Its fingertip and onto the sharp trim nail of Its index finger, the Hand began to write:
That hatred be stronger than Love,
That cruelty be easier than Kindness,
That spite be abundant over Mercy,
That hurt be exalted over Peace,
Until the last dawn has risen,
Until the last noon sky has shone,
Until the last twilight has wavered,
Until the last dusk hour has gone.
That cruelty be easier than Kindness,
That spite be abundant over Mercy,
That hurt be exalted over Peace,
Until the last dawn has risen,
Until the last noon sky has shone,
Until the last twilight has wavered,
Until the last dusk hour has gone.
And when the wizened Hand had written this curse upon the Scroll, there was not a drop of gold remaining upon It. So It withdrew through the veil from whence It had come, and the veil was sewn shut from within; only one stitch was left undone, such that it might be unpicked and opened again in time.
And the seed that had been sown in the lake of warm gold grew like a worm in a nut, unseen.
And the name of that seed was written on the Scroll, and the name of the curse, for they were one, and the same.
And the name on the scroll was Itzala.
"Wow!"
I may stick with this character, or I may not- it's a very simple, off-the-cuff concept based on what tickled me in my art folder this evening. Hello all players!
Annie
The nymph's wide-flaring dress brushed past unnumbered petty godlets as she walked, brisk on her feet, circling and fluttering through the crowd, like the very moth whose solemn-and-stylish black wings it imitated. Grief! Why did everyone on Olympus have to aspire to such height? Why was every demi-god and super-human in attendance at this fearful milling-about of the young Zeus's ascent so tall?
"Kallie? Kallie!"
At last, in answer to her voice, muffled but not lost in the hundreds-strong smattering of gorgeous bodies which were now steadily diffusing back out into the empty space of the vast Olympian parade square: movement. Someone had detected her, not by the volume of her cry but by the subtle signature unique to her own voice, and had raised his gloved hand above the crowd. An arm straight and tireless and strong. A quick, loud bark of crude electronic noise called out over the din to make sure she had seen him.
"Sʜᴇ Is Oᴠᴇʀ Tʜᴇʀᴇ," said the skull-headed machine as she approached, pointing. In the instant she had appeared from between the stragglers outside the gates of the King's palace courtyard, Psilos had assessed her posture, her gait, the strain in her voice, the very texture of her skin, all to find her unharmed by the chaos. As she should be.
"Thanks. Lost sight of her when the monsters strolled in." Shades, monsters, champions of Hades, rude, violent interruption of the City's manicured peace. Most of those who had been tossed and shoved by the underworld denizens had not been reminded of their own nanomechanically pickled human bodies in decades, even centuries. Annie would have found it tremendously funny, had it not inflamed her fears for the future of her home as a refuge. If nothing else was a constant on Hellas, Olympus itself should be. It had to be. "Kallie!"
Charis Kalleis Pannychis, when she was shortly found, was an image of calm, perched on a marble bench under a sprawling magnolia. One copper-titanium leg and one copper-titanium hand rested on the marble, the other long leg on the floor, draped with the holographic dress that projected her true body; that projected the shimmering, nubile figure that sat on the edge of the bench with both legs stretched out on the ground. Her free hand- alloy, of course- was idly shaking a wad of paper and film, a dozen or so little squares printed on the fly from that old artefact that sat on the bench with her, the 'polaroid camera' for which she had so extensively bartered. Her eyes rested elsewhere, off to one side, on the tomboyish figure of Charis Paidia sitting crosslegged on the plaza floor, wearing her loose chiton and goggled crash-helmet, engrossed by some infernal copper puzzle-toy with which she had been fiddling since before any of the High Gods had appeared. Kalleis watched her with empty-headed interest, like an old housecat watches a kitten at play with a mote of dust.
"Kallie?"
The housecat perked its ears, suddenly grinning. A moth had fluttered into its view. "There you are. You took good care of her, Psilos? Didn't let her get too frightened?" The wight conceded a one-shouldered shrug, a gesture so practiced that it passed for human. Kalleis reached out a long machine-hand and passed his charge the photographs. "Take a look at this, Annie. Apate, Demeter, Apollo, Apollo's gorgeous daughters, your Lady's adorable dog, that boywhore Eros- I got good ones. It's a real turnout. Missed Hera, but I'm guessing she'll be keeping that black dress on for a while yet."
Annie thumbed through the photographs, still breathing heavily from her search. "You're treating this like a fashion parade."
"It is one."
"Kallieee-"
The Charis took advantage of Annie's fleeting smile to add her image to the collection, lifting the camera with superhuman speed and precision. The nymph rolled her eyed and indulged her with a curtsey. Another snap. "So did you swear fealty?"
Kalleis scoffed. Unlike Psilos, her polymer flesh was still in excellent condition, and could make such sounds. "Swear what? Did you swear fealty? Didn't think so. You've probably never even sworn fealty to your own Lady. Or your lady boss Demeter. I'm not a High Goddess, Annie. My loyalty is assumed."
Annie folded her arms. "So Dionysos took the oath for you?"
"Ah-ah-aah. Remember, I'm part of Aphrodite's retinue. Formally. She's my Lady. And I don't think she even got a word in... she or that ridiculous alter-ego of hers, 'Charis Peitho'. Why someone would demote herself to one of Hegemone's dolls... Maybe she was demoted in secret, and this is how she hides the shame." Annie handed back the photographs, and Kalleis gave her the half-developed prints of herself. "I wonder if Zeus ever liked her. He barely tolerates Eros. I think he sees her as a, how did they say in the old days, a phluze- phloözea- a floozy." Kalleis had a habit of digging up old words from dull archives, even more so than trinkets.
"These are nice." Annie handed the prints back. Calmer now. As Kalleis had known she would be. "Kallie... we could be at war again. I know you're not the type to think about it. You've never lived through it..."
"Mm. I guess we could be. I'm sure we'll find out."
"The King is dead. Father Zeus is dead."
"Really? He looks lively enough to me." Annie remained unimpressed. Kallie sighed, rested her head against her copper-composite knuckles, looked up at the magnolia. Looked back. "Alright, Annie. King Zeus is dead. His heir, King Zeus, instantly hops on the throne, prances around like he was made for it. He was made for it. Made with a lot of care and resources, a great deal more than mortal kings ever need to produce an heir... you want to know how they do it? I can tell you..." Annie smiled, waved her off. "So the King's heir, a perfect little replacement of himself, who has been waiting for the throne longer than most mortal empires have existed- takes it. This was planned, Annie. I doubt the old King Zeus is even dead. He's just subjecting us to his melodrama. Like all the rest of them."
"You can't just replace-"
Kalleis looked up at her with the same inhuman speed as before. Dove into the nymph's eyes with her own.
"...Right." She sighed, finally took her seat on the bench beside her friend. Paidia continued to tinker on the floor. Psilos stood by at ease, watching the horizon with eyeless sockets. "How's Matilda, anyway?"
"She's fine. How's Artemis?"
Annie shot her a look like a bullet. "Y-"
"I didn't say anything."
The nymph sighed. They sat there together for a while. Somewhere behind the gilded gates of the courtyards, the gods held parley. A butterfly settled on Annie's finger. She neither looked at it, nor chased it off.
"Kallie... Something's not right. It's not the same. I don't know how to explain it. I feel it... in the air, the water... Like something is changing. Growing... Like something is going to happen. To everyone." She looked back to her friend, seeking the same guidance she'd received many times before. "Is that just me?"
Kalleis laughed and flicked her on the forehead. "It's just you, Annie. It's just you."
© 2007-2024