[hider= The Vision of Imhotep] Cogs and wheels scattered across the floor. The winch stuck in the mainspring as a trembling hand turned the key. Once, twice, thrice, oh how great was the labor of love. For years he had poured over his books there in the great library of the greatest of all gods. All manners of education, every lecture attended, the notes he had complied! Oh for this moment of triumph he devoted himself to learning all that he could. Sure he was a lowly overseer within the grand order of the White Moths, but soon, soon! Four, five, six, mentally counting off the turns of the winch as the thoughts flew. With the success of this experiment they would have to promote him. They'd see what wonders he could bring to the order, the value there was in a non-wizard in the city. Those overly snobby mages, rubbing their noses in the books, they jeered at him behind his back, he was certain of it as certain as the simulated sun rises over the city of Akhkabaren. How dare they mocked his lack of spellcraft, an ability that he had no affinity towards. Not all where able to study the art, and wrap their minds around the nature of how reality is an illusion. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen... [i] The first lesson of magic it to learn what it is. The very fundamentals of the art. And while it seems basic, too many magi cast without this understanding. Magic is in its very essence all around you, not just because we are in Thethoth, but everywhere. The basis of all magic is simple, anyone can learn it in theory, yet practice, practice is another question. Begin by examining what magic is. As I have stated, it is everywhere around us, but what is it? When a sorcerer summons forth flames to boil his tea at the snap of his fingers, what is happening? The flames appear, and this is what we perceive as magic, perhaps one of the most simplest parlor tricks in mundane uses for magic many of us in Thethoth are accused of. And yet what is happening to conjure up those gentle flames is the very work of gods! [/i] The work of gods, yes, the memory of the lecture clear. Long before he was hardly an Initiate in the Order he remembered the words precisely. The bold claims, the mysticism about the speaker, all of it was sophistry, but to a young boy wide-eyed in wonder this talk was like listening to the God of Knowledge himself speak directly into your ear. Everyone could learn magic, hah! What nonsense, if it were true then he would have had to prove himself worthy of the White Moths by writing his treatises on gear ratios. A simple academic challenge, a hoop to jump through, nothing more. By powers or publications, entry into the order was set in either scholarship or spellcraft, any one offering either was admitted entrance into their temples. It was the lowest of all ranks, Initiate, they who sought knowledge and would have to earn their keep by taking care of the tasks. Cleaning, cooking, copying, all the little roles to be played by the newest inductees. Those who had magic could conjure up servitors to do such duties, but those without had to struggle. But it was worth it, years of hardship endured to take up the mantle of acolyte, and from there overseer. Soon they would promote him to curator and he would have his own section within the grand library, or better yet his own satellite library to run. Yes, just keep turning the winch, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight... [i] When our Lord plucked out his own eyes, the knowledge magic was granted to the first magi. They were inept at spells, but understood the nature of them. When you and I see the magical flames to light our kettles, we are blind to the wonder that where there was no fire, there is now. Yet, to the first magic users, the ability to morph reality to their desires was amazing. The Right Eye, one of the Paradoxes of our Lord allows those flames to exist, the exact mechanics of which is beyond mortal comprehension, but I know that without the Right Eye, all magic would cease to function. Magic redefines reality, it is to argue the universe that something should be that never was, or something should not be that truly was. Pause and consider the magnitude of my words, its meaning, the truth being that magic is a way where spellcasters can change the very firmament! The spells are nothing more than carefully constructed ways to convince the world around us to bend to our will, received by the eye and transmitted across to be amplified until the universe can reject us no more. In lieu of fighting our demands, the very fabric of being is rewritten to our will. This incredible cosmic event is what we cast as magic. And the most important rule of magic is... [/i] The memory faded away as the sweat was wiped from his brow. His trembling hands strained at how tight the coils were. He could not stop here, not after thirty-six turns, there would not be enough stored energy to power his device. The great gear springs that needed to be turned, the series of cogs which must work in perfect unison, all relied on mainspring the winch will power. Months of research and even longer of commissioning artists from around Thethoth and beyond to construct each piece by hand. With the all the secrecy needed such that even they knew not what the parts were for. Sure it would have been easier to commission a single craftsman to create all the pieces, but then his would could be replicated. What a terrible thought that he could be copied, his ingenious designs stolen by those amateur clockworkers. He had poured his very soul into the work, it would be all for nothing now if some hack made it first. It was a stroke of paranoia and brilliance that he designed multiple automatra, common clockwork curiosities, that within concealed the true part that was necessary. The precious mainspring for example was form a large chronograph, designed to be sailor's time piece to keep track of the hours with daily winding. It was almost a sin to dismantle a thing of beauty, the golden accents pried apart as the empty shells lie somewhere in the pile. All for the precision mainspring that would wind his marvel up. [i] That no matter how much you will something to be, reality is an non-static function. Eventually, any spell cast will collapse, by exhaustion of the caster, the spell itself, or reality itself. Should the resolve of the caster fail to see what can be, instead of what is, the spell ends by the shortcomings of the magi. Else, if the spell in itself is flawed, such as by lacking the proper formulations to successfully alter reality, then this too shall fail. And finally, while experience can overcome the first two reasons, the final reason claims all magi alike. It is a well known event known as 'The Blink' which is felt throughout the cosmos, it signifies the Eye resetting itself. The over use of magic, on the world scale will eventually overload the Eye in a predictable cycle and all spells will cease to function for the few moments and need to be recast when the Eye is finished restore its purpose. These three things limit the use of magic to be considerably fleeting. However like our example, the fires produced by magic will have already made the tea water boil. And as such, even if a spell is quickly produced and extinguished. Thus the physical effects may still be retained, even long after the spell is complete, which is why magic is immortal. [/i] Fifty. And not a turn more. It was all he could manage, the coil would no longer wind. It was tight enough already that he feared the winch would snap. Yet still it remained, bearing the pressure that he did, all the aspirations, hopes and dreams. He remembered it well the day he snuck into the lecture hall. A mere boy among the learned men, sitting in the back beneath his heavy robes. He saw them put on their airs, pretending to understand, amusingly lying to themselves as they listened to the speaker drone on and on about the fundamentals of magic. It was almost as if they took magic for granted, the work of the gods, the power of creation and destruction in the hands of mortals. His parents had warned him about meddling in such, it was forbidden for man to wield such blasphemy. Yet there he was, a desert nomad boy, disguised as one of them, observing in their midst and learning what magic was. A fragile tool that offered limited unlimited power at a whim, it was not, as the speaker claimed immortal. No, magic died with every rebirth of the Eye, and it was by the grace of the Grand Magus that it was allowed to continue. And what if someone slew him? The historical wars had proven it was possible to kill a god, and should Great Lord of the Knowledge fall, what should happen to magic? [i][b] No. That assement is incorrect. Magic is a mortal as humans are. For they too leave a mark upon the world as proof of their existence. X has given mortals magic as an experiment, it is a tool granted to a child. He watches and observes, from those findings he will draw a conclusion and one day magi will awaken to find themselves powerless. So study magic well, learn to wield it, earn the respect to use it. [/b][/i] The words that lashed out to rebuttal the haughty wizard. The moment where all in the room laughed as they turned towards the boy where the comment seemingly came from, and then were instantly silenced. For quietly sitting beside the boy was the greatest figure among all Magi, considered to be sorcerer supreme, considered a rightful heir by their Lord and bestowed a spark of divinity. How could they have known at the time? The Archmagus had entered as the boy had, quietly and quickly to avoid arousing attention. He remembered how the thinkers quieted, how the elder commanded respect and humbled the presenter. He did not know it at the time, but he had sat beside Atefir, the Fourth Hand, the mortal man who became divine. If anyone knew more about magic than anyone in the room, it was the chosen demigod. But those words left their impression on the boy, what enlightenment came as both his parents and the spellcasters philosophies merged into one in the wisdom of Atefir. [i] Of... Of course Archmagus, your knowledge and wisdom is beyond our grasp. Forgive my ignorance and stupidity, I am but a dim candle to your sunlight illumination over the desert sands. A thousand pardons I beg of you, I was foolish to think I could understand what magic truly is. [/i] Waving off the admonitions, the demigod had signaled the man to rise and finish. But of course the great master left and the crowds followed to share in his wisdom, and no longer could the boy bask in the brilliance that was discourse. Yet the point remains, what happens when the magic ends? Would they not need a new source of power to prevent a society that suckled on the very nipple of magic to exist crumble? A new age without magic, preparation to be made where mortals can still experience the conveniences they had grown accustom to. Clockwork mechanisms emulated magic enough, surprising ever the most learned spellcaster of how they appeared to move on their own accord. The machinations creating the illusion of unbelievable automation even in a world where servants were made out of stone and clay. Maybe it was the child-like wonder such tinkercraft could elicit, a promise of something new and wonderful, more captivating that actual magic. But alas as he released the tightened winch to watch the mechanism come to life, what would keep the giant gearsprings wound? What answer could parch his lips dry from exhaustion. How could he design a gift equal to magic that they would all know his name for ages to come? When shall he be called Imhotep the Innovator? [/hider] --- [hider= The Sight of Atefir] The kettle whistled. The shrill call of a boiling waters, singing the rising note, first breathy and airy until eventually the cry could be ignored no longer. The turbulent bubbling heard within the iron vessel as the fires crackled over the burning coals. The slow roll of angry waters calming like the spring water drawn from the pleasant lake from whence it came. A world away, far from the desert sands, the connected threads interwoven between their thoughts. A reflection of a wizened face appeared as the hot water cascaded down into the stoneware pot like a gentle waterfall. Oh the paradoxes of this land, could perhaps match the ones of his desert home. Of how there could be such peace in a land governed by the goddess of war. This tranquility was to be admired, the blossoms in the gardens within view, the rolling hills of rice and flowering trees upon the scene ridge. A simple Hindoganian teahouse provided a small sanctuary to stop during his worldly travels, seeking out knowledge from lands afar rather than waiting for it to come to him. Admiring the simplicity of it all, the mountains in the far distance, the fragrant salted sea breeze that wafted in the air. Of all the cosmic splendors his journey had taken him, it was moments of leisure that suited his old soul best. Reclining in his stellar robes he was at ease in the countryside of simple folk, rural farmers with a culture of their own. There was no need for such formalities of mortal, demigod, and god, beings were beings were beings. And he was no different than any other soul looking to purchase some time to relax in his travels. It was as if they had never encounter a demigod, or a foreign visitor at that, as he ventured across the archipelago cataloging the biodiversity there. Perhaps the other demigods ventured into the larger cities of the isles, Toshi no Hi was the place to be. The vibrant crimsons of the pillars and wood, like bloodstains befitting a goddess of war. Perhaps it was a symbol of the tumultuous times past, but erected overlooking the port of sea was the ivory castle perhaps a new metaphor for the purity that sought to rise above the past bloodshed. He had heard much of her father's story, recorded in the recounting of bards and books. It was almost funny that her castle should seek to soar above, like a white heron upon the waters. And yet there was no need to rush for formal audience with the goddess of this land, surely she has knowledge his arrival, he had sent a message in advance. He came not to study the art of war, but rather to study the art of culture and life. [i] 葉が落ちる 緑の丘に 茶の中で [/i] Written across a sheet of desert moth silk, the ink beautifully shimmering ebon black against the creamy white. A small poem to be gifted to the proprietors of the tea house. Maybe the couples were surprised the stranger used the brush so well, a scholar of all things who came upon a strange beast made of a living series of scrolls. They feared him and honored him, perhaps in another paradox, as something they did not understand, but found interesting to know. Was it not the same way for the gods? Such philosophy was for another caste, all they needed here was to farm the land for food and tea, and nothing sates more than a sip of fresh hot tea. Pouring the cups as his old fingers trembled to lift the light pot. Powerful but frail, his ancient bones could no longer bear much weight, requiring a surge of magic to assist his posture beneath the concealment of the robes. Yes they looked impressive, but remove them and all the was left was a skinny bag of skin and bones. Wrinkled as time passed on, each crease a new truth revealed in an epiphany. It was almost a badge of honor by now, a mark of distinction which marked his venerable age. The soothing bittersweet grassiness of steamed tea leaves, the warmth filling the core as Atefir slowly sipped in silence and soothing serendipity. This was a wise stop. Tomorrow would bring a new sun come dawn, and were the sorcerer would be by then was a mystery to even himself. Perhaps he should pay respects to his... Aunt? Or where they technically contemporaries? The ascension of a god was a topic left untouched in their discussions between creator and created. X had instilled within Atefir a portion of his power, but nothing more came about it. A partial empowerment, neither god nor mortal, but somewhere in a state inbetween. The Archmagus knew the Grand Magus saw him as an experiment, a paradox which would resolve itself one way or another as all paradoxes do. Either he would ascend to godhood proper by his own means, or he would destroy himself as the divinity ate away the mortal vessel. Or perhaps there was another option left unsaid, as the divine tea was savored on the aged palate. Tomorrow, perhaps a visit to the Goddess of War, if only for a formality to demonstrate some filial piety to one's gracious host. But for now, there was tea in the teapot, and a half-dozen students eager to learn about the many adventures in far-away lands beyond the great seas. "I had journeyed across the land of the eternal sun, they call such a land Solas, there the vast sky above is lit with the great eye of Telios, god of Sun and Sky, where no night dares set foot. The sunbeams danced upon the high mountains that rose the great cities the Sunfolk had made, their great buildings made of solid light itself. It was an experience to hold sunshine in your hand, solid as a brick that paved the roads to the lower city in the river plains. Only those that could fly could enjoy the majesty of the land, as the rivers sparkled like flowing jewelry out across the grassy meadows, but my travels did not end until I had reached the great capital city of Dawn..." The narrative which began paused as the scholar took a moment to sip his tea. "A city in the clouds, high above where to reach it you had to climb the highest mountain and bathe yourself in the light that would pull you up into the city. You had to be careful for the edge of the city is a far drop below, but to see those massive white pillars of light was breathtaking. A view of the accomplishments of the Sunfolk no less than the City of Fire. Its people were sunny of course, both in a literal sense, and humorous one, courtly though they were, there was a great friendliness they had extended to me during my visit, albeit I must say you all have treated me just as well, allowing me to reside here in your village and drink your tea for which I am grateful. But where was I? Oh yes, the great splendor of Dawn was not in its mere height above the land, towering over as you can see the very edges of the other nations around it, perhaps even in the distance you can see my city of Akhkabaren, or perhaps rather the inverted pyramid that contains it." It has been quite some time since Atefir had felt the desert sands but less so another sip. "But my city is a story for another visit. For in the splendid city of Dawn, in the clouds was the gathering of champions from all nations: The Sky Games. A spectacle of which I had the pleasure of viewing, and once had the honor of partaking in. Or at least in my youth, but now I fear I am far too old to compete against the younger athletes who seek to usurp my title, ah but I digress, forgive me. Where was I? Oh yes, the Sky Games, a show of all the great powers of man and god. All sorts of competitions, from gladiator fights to magical duels, shows of archery and creature riding, yes dragons, native pegasi, even the mighty phoenixes on the command of Telios himself. The clash of titans, fighting for victory and honor, the glory that is to return home champion of an event, it is a thrill which unites everyone watching to cheer on. In truth I can barely begin to describe the awe of watching these events, but perhaps one day people of all nations will see such games in the sky." [i] And how did you, most honored guest, partake in the games? [/i] "Ah, well I suppose I can speak a little of my own past glory without sounding too narcissistic. But in those days, I was still young, barely beginning to understand the powers bestowed upon me. I sought to test my own abilities, what greater chance was there? While I was easily out matched in brute combat, and never had a knack for archery, I was among the champions of magic. I remember three among the other competitors that I could consider my equal. The lunar siblings, powerful sorcerers in their own right, and of course there was Astaros..." [/hider] --- [hider= The Eye of Astaros (by BCTheEntity)] For the past week or so, Astaros had been enshrined within his inner sanctum. Not that it was "his" sanctum, of course, but rather an empty room of significant size and, after some modification, immense ability to channel magical power in ways conducive to Astaros' further research into the true depths of his sorcerous might. In this room, he wondered that perhaps even he might be able to stand against a god... though of course, this was folly to so much as consider; if anything, any deities who had followed him here could well be able to use the room to their own ends anyway. Or destroy it with him inside. Still, it was nice to imagine, sometimes. But not now. Now, he had come so close to fulfilling his latest goal... he had never dared risk trying to use the Left Eye of X himself, for he knew full-well its long-term effects. But, he had long toyed with the thought that perhaps its powers could be replicated on a smaller scale - no capacity to oversee the entirety of reality... but maybe the capacity to observe one particular entity within that reality. And figuring out how to channel even a tiny portion of the Left Eye's abilities had been an unbelievably strenuous task, not just the channelling itself, but figuring out how to pull it off without dissolving whatever object was the focus of that effort into the fabric of space-time itself, essentially evaporating it into nothing. But at last, he thought he had it, and packed into a compass-like device that could be held in your hand no less! The actual location protocol, frankly, was a simple case of triangulation: if you knew what your target was, where the target location was, or for instance the unique "signature" of a target's soul, then you could key that into the Compass along with any arbitrary location, say the entrance to X's library, and have the object triangulate between itself and the other two points. It would account for distance, provide gentle telepathic nudges to keep the user moving in the right direction, and even inform them when they reached the best point to teleport into the dimension the target was in, if that applied. It was wonderful. And it had been a horrendous task to figure that and all the other logistics out just to start with. The week of actual channelling had been one of the hardest in his life, to boot: no breaks for any reason, power coursing through his body until it burned even to breathe, his magical prowess pushed close to its limits even for its might... all in pursuit of a goal that X could probably already achieve passively. Then again, what sort of demigod would Astaros be if he didn't push himself to prove he was worthy? What sort of future deity might he prove himself if he didn't, well, prove himself? And more to the point, an item he could carry around and retune would be far more helpful in the long run than just going to X every time he needed to find something in the wider world, rare as that need was. But at last, the ritual came to its end. The final incants were spoken, the final gesticulations performed, one last burst of energy, and finally, Astaros was able to slump to his knees, catching his breath for what felt like hours before he regathered his strength. Drawing himself to his full ten foot height, and flexing his wings to stretch them back out, he stepped gingerly over to the Compass - visually very similar to the usual sort of compass save that its frame was largely a vivid purple colour, an item he could hold in one hand that would nonetheless require a normal human to use two, with instructions for its use scribed on the back side, just in case. With this, he had decided long ago, he would sally forth, in search of the old man who he considered his rival in magic, the demigod called Atefir. He'd not been to X's library in a long time. There was a comparison to be made... and information to be discussed. He'd tell X he was leaving, but... well, he'd know [/hider] Three stories intertwined. Four of Three sets of eyes that see. How will they be written? How would they conclude? Such are the mysteries to be observed, life seen through the eyes of others. There floating beneath the branches of his tree, a tree held sacred by his white moth cultists as his tree of meditation, the God of Knowledge watched the world go by. Few times did he leave the sanctum of his library, for few things could pull the attention of X from his books. It was his task after all, directed as the last mandate of the creator: to study, seek, and scribe. All things in creation were to be cataloged, known, and labeled, from concepts to living beings, of which long since he had done. There was a time once where he harvested, in the early moments of creation there was more work to be done, volumes to be recorded, but now with his fanatic followers he can afford to remain within his chamber, watching the universe through the hundreds of eyes which reveal the world to his mind. X had sacrificed his eyes, but in return gained millions more. Dozens of visions, seen through the compound eyes bearing a many faceted view. Emirs seeing their cities below from above their palaces, Viziers looking at their Emirs to manipulate them, Guards to foil such plots. Each series of captured images painting the tale, without words it was hard to see the silent film, but understanding became easy when the greatest secrets are revealed, the thoughts too many write down as a ward against the failing memory. Plans written like notes, clear as day to amuse the watching god. Only the blind could keep secrets from X, or those perhaps living in darkness eternal. One day he must visit the curious god beneath the ground to record its thoughts and views yet it like he preferred the solitude of being peerless. Despite the ever present White Moth Magistrates that study beneath him, waiting for X to bless them with a few words of knowledge. Yet his silence was hard to overcome, almost aloof to the praises and worships of his followers. X did not demand empty laud, he required they do as he: to seek, study, and scribe. Only a few spells and incantation broke the silence, else most of the Magistrates kept the eerie ambiance of a greater institution of learning, exclusive and cold, beyond the reach of commoners. Alas, the visions of another god. And then darkness. So ends the series, the melodrama cut short as the sight faded and was replaced with another. It would be some time before the channel returned in the underworld, and until, then perhaps X sought to focus in sights on the three who would bring a new age about. Imhotep, a tinkerer, working on his machines for the future. What shall become of him? Should X nudge the mortal with divine inspiration? Or should he intercede and lock the secrets the man was so close to discovering away? Perhaps it would be wise to see how far the man can accomplish on his own before throwing the gods into an arms race. Fire was the first scrap of knowledge so casually given, and look what humans have made of it. Then there was Atefir and Astaros. Either a paradox in his own sense of the word. Two experiments ran side by side, a human turned into a demigod and a demigod of humans, which would complete the apotheosis first? Who shall cast off the mortal cocoon and transform himself? The allegory of a fluttering desert moth. Why One had fallen even now, shedding from the meditation tree the rare petal to gently float into the hand of a god. With the stirring of a god's hands, the transformation began as wings folded out and legs began to crawl against the divine palm. The twitching antennae, the unsteady and uncertain flap of powdery wings. The new being finding itself in the presence of its creator, X the God of knowledge, secrets and magic. Uncertain, of its magical birth, the creature crept along, feasting on the abundance of divine magic until its wings were strong enough to lift itself off the palm. There without looking back the Moth began to take to the air. Fly little moth.