Megafone

Sexta-feira, Novembro 11

A Nameless Tale Unoficcial Fanfic Hijack

(with complimentary misspellings and other atrocities)

The night had just fallen,

the stars shone up high.

Around, by the fire,

they gazed at the sky.

The ground had been laid

for what would come to be

an evening of wonders

- though some do disagree.

In chain, one by one,

each would speak and give.

The gifts of that night,

oh, you wouldn't believe.

Some would give life.

Others, things mislaid.

Many would be pleased,

though some would rather trade.

As the night unfolded

and the giving went around,

he knew it was his time.

To that he gave a frown.

The wizard stood up,

with a chest in his hand,

and began the discourse

about his own secret friend.

---

Good evening fellows,

my brothers in arms.

Even though perhaps by force

of a treacherous wiz-ard.

Mostly disobedient

and sometimes plain incompetent,

you make for good servants

in the heat of the moment.

But tonight I do speak

of one singular friend.

Someone we all know

will be our end.

It does worry me

- should worry you too.

The demeanor of this friend

is somewhat of a clue.

In the face of danger,

when demons approach,

our companion shines

with a violent touch.

Yet when the battle is done

and you feel saf-er

you better watch out

for him or her.

For the reason is lost

and the madness is true.

First it was him -

next could be you.

A blade in the back

or a dream lost.

It'll ruin the moment

whatever the cost.

And we all know full well

of the unusual romance.

They'd do it doggystyle

if they had the chance.

So I present this chest

and the treasures within

to none other than Naia,

the murderous paladin.

---

A sword she found inside,

but one they wouldn't fear.

For this was made of rubber,

his intentions were made clear.

The group was now safe,

even if for some time.

The wizard had saved their lives

from the next heinous crime.

Leonardo amplificou pensamentos às 12:12.
3 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quarta-feira, Novembro 9

A Nameless Tale Episode

"Which Way the Cat Jumps"

“Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?

I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?

I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.”

(excerpt from the Weaver’s Gospel)

Holy city of Dameste. She found him near the edge of the forest, covered in dew, meditating in the long shadow of the cathedral’s main tower.

'There you are, big guy. They've sent people looking for you all over. Come on.'

'I will stay here for now. My part is done.'

'What do you mean?'

'I am done. I need not return with you.'

'What are you saying? We need you for the summoning rites.'

'No longer am I required. Her gaze is upon us as we speak.'

'No, you must be mistaken! The Descent isn’t until two weeks from now. We're not ready yet.'

'At this point, She will come regardless of whether you are ready or not; also, regardless of my absence during the rites.'

'How can you be so certain? A-anyway, we should attend the ceremonies nonetheless, don't you think? What else could be more important?'

'It is not for you to know.'

'Damn it, To'rac. Why won't you just trust me? After all we've been through, one might think you'd put more faith in our companionship. Now you're out here, being unusually cryptic and acting all like nothing of this really matters anymore. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you...'

The neq’ael warrior turned to face her. His nonhuman features would seem inscrutable, if it was somebody else looking upon him. The realization became a thorn in her heart.

'You're… going away!’, she had to say it to believe it, ‘You're really going away, aren't you?’

'Soon, yes.'

It wouldn’t be the first time, but it could well be the last.

'You can't!’, she cried, slightly hysterical, ‘There must be... there must be twelve masters for the completion of the summoning!'

'I tell you’, he held out a paw-like hand to calm her down, and the woman leaned her face on it, ‘She will descend.'

'W-why are you doing this?’, she protested, miserable, ‘I thought we'd be together when, you know, when it happens. It's been comforting to believe that. And I know you're not a coward, so why are you leaving? What could possibly justify...'

'If I tell you, our paths will diverge indefinitely.'

'That's your way of saying we won't meet again. But I honestly don't see that it will make much of a difference right now...'

'I know you don't see it.'

And how could she? She was not neq'ael, and therefore couldn't Glimpse, couldn't behold the Unfolding. To'rac, however, could, and knew that the woman next to him would most likely die an untimely death if he remained by her side. He had seen it; he'd Glimpsed countless scenarios in which she would eagerly throw herself in death's arms thinking she was protecting him. The small woman was blind like that, and ailed by a second blindness that made her reckless.

'Don't be sad for my departure. I would rather see you glad.'

'I thought you said joy and sorrow were the same', she muttered, wiping droplets from the corners of her slanted eyes.

'I did, but I have been among your kind too long.'

This was true. It had been difficult for To’rac to grasp the concept of personal attachment, and many of its underlying feelings remained somewhat a mystery to him. It was something the neq’ael just did not experience; probably because they lived on the edge of the Unfolding, and watched as the myriad possible futures collapsed into the present and streamed towards the past, like a cosmic waterfall. The neq’ael were constantly aware of this cascade, and therefore privy to most ends and conclusions long before they weaved into reality. And it did not matter that things ended, for it was the way of the universe. Why, then, why was it that humans mourned and grieved at a conclusion? But eventually To’rac understood that this happened because they were blind, and perceived a passing as something tragic; and the attachment that blossomed between onset and ending, they called it love. For a long time, this made no sense to him.

‘Will we… Will I ever…’

‘I do not know’, he replied honestly.

‘Nonsense. You know everything.’

He didn’t, and she knew he didn’t.

‘What comfort can I offer you?’

‘Don’t leave.’

‘That would be bad for everyone. But if I go, there is hope’, another word To’rac had learned during his stay with humans, and he still didn't like it. The idea of expecting any given outcome had seemed nothing short of absurd to him at first, but eventually he understood that it was yet another method they employed to cope with their blindness. More often than not, it ended badly; thus, he thought it a cruel thing to give hope. Still, there was always comfort in it. For them.

‘Do not be afraid’, he insisted, ‘There is nothing to be afraid of.’

‘...if you go’, she whispered.

‘After I go.’

She bit back her tears.

‘Send me something to tell me you’ll return.’

The appeal came out sad, devoid of hope.

‘...very well’, he nodded.

Later that morning, they came for him, led by the red-haired girl, Serena's apprentice. They came to take him away.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 15:39.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Terça-feira, Novembro 8

A Nameless Tale Interlude

"Eidolon's Wounds"

‘Does it hurt much?’, asked Arísia while she pressed the healing balm against Eidolon’s broken ribs.

‘Not too much… OW!’, Eidolon flinched and gasped in agony, ‘Ugh! My body has surely endured worse, but I’m afraid the same cannot be said of my pride.’

‘The boy got you good’, teased Arísia, with a sympathetic smile, ‘Never before has anyone seen the mighty Eidolon disarmed. By a child, of all conceivable foes!’

‘Maybe I’m finally too old for this’, frowned the elf, feigning misery.

‘Oh, save it for someone who doesn’t know you as I do!’, she scolded, still smiling, ‘You damn well know the reason why you got such a severe beating: You were holding back! A rather pitiful display, I might add. You might as well have laid your neck bare on a stone and asked the boy to take his time as he decided the best angle to behead you.’

‘You know me…’, groaned Eidolon, as Arísia pressed a fresh balm on his side; his voice became pained whispers, ‘…too well.’

Arísia finished tending to Eidolon’s wounds in silence. She performed the task in a gentle, efficient, almost motherly way (even though he was twice as old as she). It had always been like this between them: Instant, easy, nonsexual empathy.

‘May I be candid with you?’, Arísia inquired as she tied up the last bandage.

‘I don’t see that you can’t, o Tamer of the Fates. At any rate…’, he replied with a tortured grin, ‘It’s not like I can skip away and leave you chatting with the void, is it?’

Arísia did not reply, and Eidolon recognized in her expression signs of troubled musings, that sort of deep-rooted disquiet that cannot be weeded out with friendly banter.

‘What’s wrong, Arísia? Talk to me.’

‘Oh, where to start?’, she pulled her chair close to his bed, ‘You’ve changed, Mermes and you. Ever since Divanor… passed away.’

‘Mermes lost a son’, she continued, ‘and too well do I know the pain of it. I suppose his aggressive outbursts are a way of dealing with the loss. I myself was angry for a long while… but eventually I realized anger would not bring my daughter back, and the longer it took me to come to terms with her death, the more impaired my judgment would become.’

‘And what about me?’

‘Well, to put it bluntly, it looks like you’ve gone soft. But wipe that offended look off your face, I mean it neither in a bad nor in a good way. It’s just that, as I grew up, you always seemed like the most seasoned of us, a paragon of ruthless speed and precision. It took me a while to notice your gentle side, which now appears to be the only one left. And I like it too, even if it makes me wonder.’

‘You want to know what happened to me.’

‘Well, something must have happened, so yes, I’d be very much interested in the tale.’

‘I hope you’re not in a hurry’, he sighed.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 14:05.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quarta-feira, Outubro 12

A Nameless Tale Interlude

"The Descent"

Maira was made manifest in the city of Dameste, because that was where the worthiest people had gathered to worship, pray and beckon her to be amongst them. Upon her arrival, there was a flash of blinding blaze as a streak of white lightning split the skies, and a hail of radiant spears poured on the land below from the broken firmament like blood out of an open wound. Many perished instantly in the sheer rapture of her presence, when a young woman named Serena closed her eyes and, as she opened them in the next moment, they were Maira's eyes; and when Serena's mouth spoke, it was Maira's voice that shattered the hearts of her countless peers, replacing the remaining void with fire and violent, relentless joy. Finally, every man, woman and child had relinquished themselves to Her. They marched gloriously towards the center of the continent, shepherded by the impossibly beautiful woman who had been Serena and now was something else, something too far removed from what anyone could even begin to describe. Whosoever dared stand in Her path was obliterated be a mere glimpse at Her glow in the distance. The impious as well as the unconverted who survived long enough to gaze at Her directly were seized by a feverish madness; they immolated themselves, chanting Her name in utter adoration. When Maira arrived at her destination (followed by an army of entranced beings who never needed to lift a finger in Her aid), she opened the Gate. And this was always where the nightmare took too high a toll on Mordamir's spirit. He would wake up sweating profusely, livid and panic-stricken. He would then curse, when he regained the ability to speak, and stumble his way outside, and light his pipe, knowing too well that he wouldn't be able to sleep again that night.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 08:24.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Terça-feira, Setembro 20

The Nameless Tale

Behind the Curtains – part #1

As one of the authors (I consider each and every player a co-author) and creative force that compels the Nameless Tale to stretch onward, I must confess that sometimes the suffering I inflict on certain characters is quite deliberate. Many of you might have already suspected as much, or realized that I got better at it over time. The primary reason behind everything has always been the Story, of course: Nobody is interested in a tale wherein everybody is blissfully happy and nothing too terrible ever happens. Nobody is interested in a description of the ‘happily ever after’ (which is an artificial and perverse notion, but this is a discussion for another day). Furthermore, happy endings are good and fine, but realistically speaking: (1) nothing ever really ends, and (2) it is the actions that lead to the conclusion, and not the other way around, i.e. a real ‘happy ending’ is always temporary and should never occur just for the sake of making people feel good.

A secondary reason to beset characters with plagues and hardships is to explore the depths of their personalities. There’s nothing like a good disaster to test someone’s mettle and see what they are really made of. And even though characters often behave in a cowardly or selfish manner, it does not mean they have failed the test at all! On the contrary – their flaws give them texture and make them believable. After all, most real people are petty and dishonest.

Finally: many of the characters I’ve crafted for the Nameless Tale fall within a personal study of tragic characters that I have been conducting for a while. The other day I stumbled upon a solid categorization of tragic characters, so let us take a look at it:

(A) The Tragic Hero

The Tragic Hero is the main protagonist in the story but they will not achieve their goals and will very likely die in the trying. Having been attached to the hero beforehand, when they suffer their fate we feel a deeper shock and sympathy for them (and, by association, our selves). Aristotle described the tragic hero as trying to do the right thing in a situation where the right thing cannot be done.

NT examples: Syllad Gladarth; Árien Míniel; Giaccomo.

(B) The Fatally Flawed

Most characters have flaws of some kind as this gives them a 'three dimensional' quality. The fatally flawed character goes beyond this to having flaws so deep and so formed that they are doomed to failure. In moral tales, having a fatal flaw means that the character is ultimately doomed. Thus the bad guys in Dickens' stories always get their comeuppance. Heroes can be fatally flawed, turning them into tragic heroes. They still have heroic qualities, but these are not enough to compensate for the flaws.

NT examples: Hudson the Bard; Arallin (tragic hero); Catrina Rimbaud (the baron’s daughter).

(C) The Fallen Hero

The Fallen Hero is one who succumbs to the temptations placed before them, perhaps converting to the 'dark side' or to vices such as greed. We may have mixed feelings about the fallen hero, as we have previously admired them, yet now detest what they do. We may also still feel for them as we spot weaknesses in them that we recognize in ourselves.

NT examples: Sir Vincent; Grígori Mayer; Hudson the Bard.

(D) The Doomed Warrior

The Doomed Warrior is one who will die in battle. Perhaps they lack the strength or skill, or perhaps they lack the wisdom to know when to retreat, but the outcome is the same. The doomed warrior can thus be a variant of the tragic hero. Whilst we admire the Warrior's determination and courage, in the end we are reminded that battle and war lead to death, even of the 'good guys'.

NT examples: Ludwig; Divanor; Hugo.

(E) The Wilting Flower

The Wilting Flower is a weak character, often a young woman, who lacks the fortitude to get what she wants, such as the affections of a man or the approval of her father. Men also can be wilting flowers, as the defining quality is a timidity and lack of determination. Whilst the character may be sympathetic and we will them on, they also irritate us (perhaps in reflection of our own weaknesses).

NT examples: Lady Serena; Erutan.

(F) The Doomed Innocent

The classic Innocent is a child or naive person who symbolizes lack of understanding. In their innocence they may stray into the line of fire or otherwise suffer unexpectedly. Bystanders are effectively innocents and may be shot, blown up or otherwise massacred by the needs of the plotline to create realism and sympathy. Their being harmless, we easily like the innocent, although we may despair at their naivety. When they are harmed, we rail at the unfairness of it all (and the reflection how unfair the real world is).

NT examples: Sarana Olhosclaros (Arísia’s daughter); Líriel.

(G) The Madman

The Madman, like the innocent, does not understand what is really happening and so is likely to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They may also just exist in a tragic place, locked inside their own psychic prison. We feel less sympathy for the mad person as this is tempered by the threat that they pose to us. They also remind us of our own secret insanities.

NT examples: Eric McDoughan; Baron Schlaggs; Irianna Galatór.

(H) The Lost Soul

The Lost Soul has perhaps already suffered some personal tragedy and in their seeking for repair suffer further bad experiences. We feel for the lost soul and want them to find some haven, yet they may frustrate us as their introspective stance prevents them from seeing possible rescue.

NT example: Isabella Lockvogel.

(I) The Victim

Victims are innocent bystanders who get caught up in the action and suffer as a result. They are typically the direct target of the antagonist and may be kidnapped, seduced or otherwise harmed. There is much debate about victims as, although they gain our sympathy, they may have a mental condition whereby they deliberately put themselves into the victim's shoes in order to feel hope and the satisfaction of rescue. In this way, they are tragic characters in the repeated patterns of victimhood.

NT examples: the people of Virtúzi, Saravossa, Torbel, Runa; the Tobias brothers.

(J) The Foolish

The Foolish person is not the same as the fool, at least not the classic Shakespearean fool who is actually wise. The foolish person is the opposite of wise, making foolish decisions and doing foolish things. As such they may get themselves into all kinds of scrapes and tragic circumstances. As an audience we cast our eyes skywards at the actions of foolish people and are grateful that we are wise at least to some extent.

NT examples: Dírtan (a.k.a. Malik); Líriel.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 01:18.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Segunda-feira, Agosto 29

A Nameless Tale Episode

'Meant for Greatness'

‘The woods are lovely this time of the year’, she thought as she ran her fingertips over the knee-high flowered shrubs punctuating the trail left and right, ‘So noisy and fragrant and alive!’. The nightly breeze ran swift towards the ocean half a sparrow’s flight away, carrying the mixed perfumes of thyme, marjoram and sage, swaying the cork oaks and olive trees as it flowed. Liriel collected familiar scents with the same joyful abandon of when she was but an elf-child and went picking honeysuckles and myrtle blooms to adorn her mother’s table. The rustling treetops and a vast assortment of wildlife sounds completed a sensory landscape that filled her spirit with a reassuring sense of freedom.

‘How can anyone stay at home in a night like this?’, Líriel said out loud to no one, though in a tone she wished she had used with her mother, a domineering woman determined to inflict on her the lifestyle of a celibate monk. ‘Honestly, mother!’, she raved in the moonlit trail, enjoying her little game of pretend, ‘I shall be twenty-nine next month! Your daughter is not a defenseless little thing anymore! Oh, sure, you always need to bring Brun up, do you not? Well, see here: I am twice – no, thrice! – as responsible as my big brother will ever be, with the extra advantage that my brains are located within my skull and not between my legs! Yes, mother, I am painfully aware that he has never run off, as you keep reminding me; maybe I wouldn’t have if you’d granted me as much freedom as you gave him! And I did come back, didn’t I? Safe and sound too, because I can take perfectly good care of myself! I’ll say – if my dear brother so much as glimpsed at half the things I saw in Virtuzi, he’d surely soil his pretty pants. What’s more – ’; and so Liriel went on as she trailed through the woods, ranting passionately about overprotective mothers and the very few privileges enjoyed by young women in comparison to their male siblings. On her own, she was quite comfortable voicing her outrage in words she daren’t use back home lest an expeditious hand across the cheek might disturb the eloquence of her argumentation.

While Liriel’s cathartic monologue reached the peak of its intensity, she strode into a rocky clearing ending in a precipice which overlooked the bay of Muli. The city, with its myriad houses and windows and lampposts, was a distant constellation of flickering yellow dots. ‘Lucky to have returned in one piece, am I? Is that what you imply?’, she cried out at the imaginary figure of her disgruntled mother, ‘Then pray tell me, mother: Could a weak, helpless girl do this?’ – and she flicked a wrist and snapped her fingers, an old formula pouring from her lips; at once a speck of light came into existence and emitted a warm glow at the tip of her index finger, lighting up Liriel’s self-satisfied grin.

‘Yes’, she would one day announce to her mother, ‘I am a sorceress! I can do extraordinary things and I’ve learned it all by myself! Do you still think me helpless?’ – which was not a complete truth, as it happened, since she had been introduced to magic in the city of Virtuzi, after running away from home. She’d picked up gossip on the road that a certain Mordamir resided in that city and that he’d been known to take orphaned children under his wing as apprentices; maybe he would have her too!

Alas, she’d arrived to Virtuzi in a time when Mordamir was not in town, but still managed to meet one of his apprentices – a young elf named Mórion – and convinced him to teach her what he knew. ‘An apprentice is a reflection of his master, so I could be much worse off than this!’, she pondered in that occasion.

Liriel’s association with Mórion and his companions had led her to become involved in more than a few hazardous situations. In the end, the path of their adventures led them back to Muli, her hometown, where she was persuaded by her own traveling party to go back to her family’s house and lie in wait, which she did begrudgingly. Liriel had been advancing in the ways of magic, after all, and was also developing a big appetite for opportunities to use it.

In hindsight, she thought, it had been wise not to reveal anything about her adventures or her involvement with magic to her family. Firstly, because they wouldn’t have believed it without the supporting accounts of her companions; secondly, because neither Mórion nor any of her adventuring partners ever came back for her, all disappearing from Muli without leaving so much as the trace of a trail. Liriel was so heartbroken from the desertion that she fell into a cheerless, obedient mood which was conveniently interpreted by her mother as a prodigal child’s remorse for having fled home and forsaken her family.

Nevertheless, the young elf-girl had never been one to dwell on gloomy thoughts. She had been quick to rekindle the flame of determination in her spirit, resuming her magic studies in secrecy and making great strides in them. As a result, she was now able to conjure up light whenever she pleased, as well as make small objects invisible to the eye. She was capable of levitating above the ground with ease, and it amused her to imagine the baffled expression in her brother’s face if he one day happened to break into her room as she practiced. Lately she had even found the grit to learn a most frightful spell, one described in her grimoire as being ‘highly perilous to caster and targets alike’ – the conjuring and hurling of a fireball! Yes, her progress was quite impressive (she believed), especially considering there was no longer a master to turn to for instruction, no tutor to chaperone her through the perils of the mystic path. She’d become confident, proud and self-sufficient, an image which constantly clashed with the one her mother still retained of her: a frail, sometimes impudent and often irresponsible child.

Líriel stared at the twin moons hovering near the northern skyline. They were casting a pair of pale reflections in the black ocean below. ‘I have given up reasoning with you, mother’, spat Liriel at length to the salty wind, ‘I am weary of this wretched house! I am leaving, this time for good, and not once will I look back over my shoulder! … and if I should perish a nameless pilgrim, so be it! A more preferable fate it would be than dying of this miserable drabness that seems to thrive under your roof!’

The blaze in Líriel’s speech was fire on a mound of straw. As fast as it had burned, it diminished into lukewarm nothingness, leaving the girl gazing stupidly at the lunar reflections through the dim glow of her magic light. It was a good thing that this was not a real conversation, she thought, because she had regretted those last words as soon as they’d come out of her mouth. Dissatisfied with the outcome of her game of pretend, Líriel lit her way to the edge of the cliff and found a comfortable spot to recline. Waves roared and crashed somewhere down the cliff, but their strife against the land was invisible, concealed under a thick layer of darkness.

Líriel was surprised to realize that she was weeping in anger. There was something beyond vexation clawing at her heart; she looked within and found resentment. Then she gazed around at the infinite spans of land and sea, and it dawned on her a new understanding forged in the anvil of memory: When she first fled her home… it had never been out of spite for her family, but rather a deep urge to see beyond the boundaries of an ordinary life. Then, when she started her magic training under Mórion, she was so certain that at long last she had found the path to a higher meaning in life; and finally, after her companions left her behind, the way robbed of her or simply lost… after that, she had never quite managed to find it again – though she had found a great many things to blame for her misery. She had blamed her upbringing, her family. She had blamed her mother, in particular. Those, however – and this hit her with the force of an epiphany – were the people who had never deserted her, and the wrongness of her resentment towards them stirred now unpleasantly in her chest. For the first time in her young life, Líriel did very much feel like a foolish child. Then, with no conscious intention to do so, she resumed the conversation with her imaginary mother:

‘I hope you can forgive me, mother. I only wanted to be great. You do not see greatness in me, and I now wonder whether revealing my magic to you would change that. Perhaps I could try to follow your footsteps, and sell herbs and woven baskets in the market square for a living… and lose my mind in the slow, noxious regret of all things left undone. Ugh! But see, I must not allow this to happen… me, resenting you. I love you. I respect you and I am grateful for the shelter and wisdom with which you endeavored to protect me, but you need to understand that I am meant for greatness. Therefore… let me go, that I may return to you with a light heart and songs of victory and wonder’.

This was it, Líriel thought; never before had she uttered words more honest and true. She would tell her mother everything, and let her know that a daughter was leaving the house not out of spite, but to prevent it. ‘I hope you understand’, she rehearsed, clearing her throat, ‘and if you do not, then I hope you will eventually find it in yourself to forgive me’. Yes, this was it.

‘She will not’, spoke an unseen person. The voice uttering the words had been hoarse and unemotional.

This startled Líriel so badly that, as she jumped to her feet, her magic light went out. She hastened to renew the spell, and failed. Then she gazed around frantically, but could not locate the source of the voice. Her eyes had not yet become accustomed to the dark, and she was as good as blind.

‘Who are you?! Show yourself, stalker!’, she shouted at the solid darkness that engulfed her, trying to sound confident, ‘It is a very dangerous thing, sneaking up on a sorceress! On your life, reveal yourself!’

But whosoever had come to Líriel with those words remained silent as well as motionless (as far as she could hear). There was only the loud whispering of the wind and the distant murmurs of the sea. Then, as second after agonizing second dragged by, Líriel’s sight adjusted to the gloom and the moonlit surroundings started to reveal their forms and shapes: Not ten paces away, a cloaked silhouette stood, facing her. The ends of the cloak were torn and tattered, fluttering in the breeze while all the rest remained perfectly still; like a statue dressed in dirty rags. The face gleamed dully, as if made of rusted metal, and the stranger seemed to be holding a bulky object in its right arm, firmly pressing it against his chest. A moment later, Líriel decided that this object resembled a very large book.

‘You are a sorceress’, the cloaked figure spoke in a tone that hovered somewhere between question and affirmation.

‘I am indeed!’, answered Líriel louder than she meant to, ’and if you value your life, you will state your name and tell me the reason of this intrusion!’. The stranger made no reply, but advanced two steps.

At this point, Líriel had mustered enough self-control to produce a new magic light source. This one was more powerful, and floated some distance above her head. It was probably visible from the city, she considered, intimately hoping a patrol would notice it and hurry to investigate. The stranger was now fully bathed in the glow of a shining orb, but not much was revealed that Líriel had not already noticed: The dark garments in which he was clad covered nearly the entirety of his body, with the exception of his face, which was concealed behind a plain, tarnished metal mask. The stranger’s eyes were invisible behind the narrow horizontal slits that constituted the only openings in the mask, and the book he held – for it was indeed a book – somehow resisted her attempts to keep her eyes on it. What she experienced was akin to gazing directly at the morning sun, only without the light: The more fiercely she stared at the book, the more painful it became to sustain her gaze, so that she was constantly forced to avert her eyes. There was magic, strong magic at work right there.

‘Stay your ground, whoever you are!’, Líriel yelled, assuming an aggressive stance, ‘I grant you but one warning: Keep your distance, lest you meet an untimely end!’. Frenzied heartbeats punctuated her speech like little hiccups.

Maybe the cloaked stranger did pause, but Líriel’s mind was roaring with panic and the next thing she knew was that she had already started performing the fireball incantation. The heat between her palms was a clear indication that, in spite of her distress, the spell had been carried out adequately. Then a blazing sphere the size of a human head left her joined hands, leaped into the air and whizzed violently towards the stranger. A precise throw. Upon contact, the sphere instantly released a highly compressed amount of elemental fire, and the subsequent detonation was seen and heard by beggars who walked the streets of Muli that night.

Líriel did not see much. The explosion had occurred too close.

=========================

The following morning, fishermen making ready to depart in the early hours would shout in sorrow and alarm at a corpse brought in by the tide. One would recognize the lifeless body as belonging to an elf-child who had grown up in Muli, and volunteer to seek the girl’s family. It would soon transpire among the hectic onlookers that the girl’s name was Líriel, and that she had been the daughter of an herbalist who lived nearby.

Many wept, acquainted or otherwise, at the visage of the deceased girl. The family’s grief, however, was an even more miserable sight to behold, as it often is when a young one is lost. They mourned the girl according to the elven customs, and she was given a simple burial next to her previously departed kin.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 16:29.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quarta-feira, Agosto 17

Nameless Tale Trivia

A little-known fact is that Giaccomo's background and his entire story arc was inspired by a Dream Theater song: "In the Presence of Enemies". Rest in peace, Giaccomo, your deeds have enriched the Tale greatly and will not be forgotten.

Welcome tired pilgrim

Into the circle

We have been waiting

Everyone's gathered

For your arrival

All the believers

Angels fall

All for you

Heretic

Demon heart

Bleed for us

I've been waiting for you

Weary preacher man

You have been expected

Now we can begin

Let this hallowed day

of judgment reign

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 16:59.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quarta-feira, Junho 8

A Nameless Tale Teaser

(to keep you wondering while I'm busy)

"Why are you late? This is the first time, and I've been here since the beginning of it. Watching the endless cycles, just watching and waiting and thinking. You know there is very, very little else I can do. I could, with half the flap of a wing, glance into the infinite and learn what's hindering you, but I won't. I close my eyes willingly. I do it because there is very little else I can do, and if I learn too much, then what will I have to wonder about? I need to keep my thoughts busy. Over the countless eons, I've devised intricate vistas of reflection so far beyond your rudimentary mindscape that you couldn't begin to suppose the simplest aspects of them. Yet, I'm entitled to nothing, I'm allowed to build nothing. Why ARE you late?

You, with your pathetic flicker of a lifespan. So fleeting. I envy you with every fiber of my being. A breath, you're gone, and you're allowed to forget. I think and I wonder whether something remains, every time I send you back. Probably not - you keep repeating the same old mistakes. I think I could recite your life by heart in one short, vulgar little poem, now. Maybe I will, when you arrive, and I'm sure it would take no longer than a few of your lifetimes. Then again, it's not really up to me, is it? No... If I could bring or keep anyone here with me, wouldn't I have already done it? I would certainly have tried. Alas, this is one of the few ultimate truths that I allow myself to know - that for as long as I am here, I must be alone, and that for as long as I am, I must be here. Watching, only, thinking and waiting. For you."

"Ah, there you are."

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 16:37.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Segunda-feira, Maio 30

Today is Quote Day

“Life is partly what we make it, and partly what it is made by the friends we choose.”

(Tennessee Williams)

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 07:57.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Terça-feira, Maio 10

A Nameless Tale Episode

"To Mend the Threadbare"

Celesta descended the stairs leading to the cellar of the royal fortress, the clippety-clop of her heels echoing in the yawning darkness ahead of her. The wine stored therein served many ritualistic purposes, and for this reason very few people could just walk in whenever they pleased. This also made the cellar a very good place to hide things – or hold a secret meeting away from prying eyes. It so happened that Celesta’s concerns had, in fact, less to do with wine in that moment, and more to do with the fact that she was playing the role of host to a very unusual guest; one who cared little for comfort and had demanded only secrecy in exchange for something very valuable.

He had appeared out of nowhere, at night when she was completely alone in her quarters, and nearly startled the soul out of her skin. He’d emerged from the shadows with moves that produced utterly no sound, and yet the trespasser’s frame was huge: no less than three meters tall and covered in pitch-black fur. Before Celesta had a chance to recover from the shock and yell in alarm at the intruder’s sight, however, the towering figure had uttered a word – “brother” – and dangled a red phial from a thin, silvery chain before her eyes.

Now, even as Celesta reached the lower end of the stairs, she thanked herself for not giving in to fear that night. Celesta’s self-control had given the otherworldly visitor an opportunity to introduce himself as an ally, a paladin of the goddess Maira, charged with bringing the cure for a grievous ailment to the sovereign of Âmien.

Celesta’s brother, Vilgarion, had been confined to his bed months before, due to an illness that was consistently deemed incurable by all who attempted to restore his health. In the meantime, the princess had taken on the role of regent and saw herself in a position where she was forced to fend off two beasts at once: War in the neighboring kingdoms, which threatened to engulf and devour Âmien, as well as political instability within the homeland itself, mostly due to the sovereign’s impending doom and the expansionist push from the southern high-elves. Things had never looked so grim in her lifetime, and maybe that’s why she reached for the stranger’s helping hand so easily.

Or perhaps it was something else: Celesta had never laid eyes on such a creature, and yet the moment she gazed into those large, amber eyes, there was a spark of recognition. Something old, some ancient instinct stirred within Celesta and, in her heart, she felt an irrational surge of confidence towards her visitor. Moved by neither intuition nor empathy – but rather the purest certainty – she took the crystal phial from a gigantic claw and agreed, unquestioningly, to keep his presence a secret.

Celesta had been the princess of Âmien for many centuries, and the repeated sting of deceit had spared very little of her original sweetness. At that point in life, she might admit to herself that there was hardly anyone she could trust without reservations – and yet this beastly creature … there was something in him that bore the distinctive ring of untainted truth!

Therefore, she trusted him, and this morning her brother had opened his eyes and returned from a lengthy walk along the cliffs of oblivion. Celesta thought she could still hear the raptures and songs of joy emanating from her subjects outside the castle, when her eyes met those of her guest in the dimness of the cellar.

“It is done”, the eyes remarked casually.

“May we converse?”, Celesta asked tentatively, “I would very much like to know more of you”.

“You will ask me questions”, came the short reply, before the guest crawled to a better lit spot beside a huge barrel of wine (the ceiling was too low for him to walk upright).

“If I may, yes!”, exclaimed Celesta with a start, retreating two steps and then wondering whether her reaction had offended her visitor or not, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I have never… I’m sorry.”

The creature threw at her a quizzical stare.

“What may I call you?”, the princess said at length.

“To’rac”, the creature responded, and Celesta bowed deeply.

“I have been thinking”, she spoke, contemplating the massive being crouched in front of her, “When I was a child, my mother... used to tell me stories of a people, one called Neq’ael by the high-elves. ‘The first and true seers’, she used to say, ‘Long gone, and all but forgotten’. You are of the Neq’ael, aren’t you?“.

“Forgotten, perhaps”, To’rac answered in a wistful voice, “But not gone. Never gone.”

“You are!”, Celesta’s voice trembled with excitement, “So it is also true what she told me about your lifespan. You are immortal!”

“Semantics, little one. We do not meet death, not in the same sense as you and your kind do. We can, however, and we will, inevitably, cease to exist, but only when we are called. Till then, it is not that we cannot perish so much as we are not allowed to.”

“Allowed?”, Celesta asked eagerly, “By whom?”

“By the Great Weaver whose threads bind existence itself.”

“Who is this Weaver you speak of?”, she insisted, “Is he a priest, a wizard?”

“None of the sort”, dismissed To’rac, ever composed, “He is as a God unto your Gods.”

This statement seemed to vex Celesta somewhat.

“I… thought you served the Goddess of Life”, she spoke, suspicious.

“I do indeed”, To’rac replied, his amber orbs gazing at the princess all the while, “But how shall I put it so you may understand? Consider this: If Maira were an artist and all of her creation a painting, then the Weaver would have to be the canvas, and the brush, and the light which breathes life upon the colors of Her palette. He came first, and he’s the garden where the other Gods play their small games; and though I serve Maira, it was He who weaved me into existence, and my services to One and to the Other aren’t mutually exclusive. Indeed, through my service to Her, the accomplishment of something much greater follows.”

“I’m not sure I understand, but why do I feel compelled to trust you nonetheless?”, Celesta whispered, half to herself.

“You are very unlike your kin”, the guest declared with unconcealed reverence, “There’s a fraction of the Weaver in your spirit which allows you to Glimpse. Your mother has it too.”

“Mother? You speak of her as if she were alive and…”, she paused, covering her mouth with one silky hand, “Will I ever see her again?”

To’rac chuckled without derision.

“I am no oracle, little princess. May I suggest that you enjoy whatever uncertainty there may remain about your future? Your kind doesn’t cope well with what you call ‘foresight’.“

“No, I suppose we don’t…”, Celesta agreed, swallowing her grief, “But you speak of the accomplishment of something greater. Pray tell me what you mean.”

To’rac closed his eyes, and seemed to fall into himself. His next words came in an ominous stream:

“Time and reality interweave in a tapestry, where we are all threads. When threads are removed or misplaced, the fabric becomes frayed. I endeavor to repair a tattered tapestry, lest the actions of inconsequent children tear it apart altogether.”

“The meaning of your words eludes me”, Celesta replied, bemused, “but today you’ve done me a kindness I cannot hope to repay. If ever can I be of any use to you, my very life is placed at your disposal. This I vow, in the name of my mother.”

“You needn’t concern yourself with me, little one”, replied To’rac, reopening his eyes, “for I merely do what I must. I depart now. There is mending to be done elsewhere.”

“Fare thee well, then, noble Neq’ael, and know that your deeds and your name will not be forgotten.”

“Yes, they will”, replied To’rac with impossible certainty, “And it doesn’t matter”.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 16:43.
1 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quarta-feira, Fevereiro 2

A Nameless Tale Episode

"The Death of Ardras Trilence"

The soil was dry in Einlaril, even though it was the middle of the wet season. Ardras Trilence, high-elven general and sorcerer, rode through the remains of what used to be a thick forest of wide-leafed trees; “Einlaril Woods” it was called – or rather, had been until a few weeks earlier, when Fírien became poisoned with grief and burnt it down to nothing, leaving the land covered in ashes. “Einlaril Wasteland”, it might as well be renamed.

Ardras had been left no choice but to slay the maddened comrade in that occasion, lest all of their forces be swallowed in flames. Whether or not he felt remorse for doing so, his manners didn’t betray it; his emotions had been retreating into such depths of nonexistence that even those closest to him grew wary of his utter detachment, and stood uneasy in his presence. An unsettling notion whispered itself in the minds of Ardras’s peers: If he was capable of treating the issue of taking a friend’s life with such nonchalant disregard, then what was to say of his cares for everyone and everything else?

Night would soon fall, and the general, accompanied by two of his military attachés, rode a slim horse back to his quarters after a full day of strategic meetings and deliberations. Thunder rolled in the distance, portending nature’s first efforts to wash away the ash and heal the land. “A long time from now, all the strife and devastation won’t have mattered”, Ardras pondered. It would take time, inevitably – ages, perhaps – but little did it matter to nature in its resilience – or to him.

Those were the musings echoing in the hollow of Ardras’s thoughts when thunder rolled once more across the land, long and loud. It shook the dust resting on the tents and brought a dense, humid breeze with it. It felled the withered leaves that still clung to their twisted, dead branches. It also felled Ardras’s attachés and their horses, all of which presently collapsed to the ground and never rose to their feet again.

It took Ardras a few seconds to take in the full import of what had happened, but even then he merely slid slowly off his horse and perused his surroundings with the cold, dead gaze of a gargoyle. “Where are you, Grítias?”, said Ardras to the deadly emptiness that encompassed him. In his voice there was neither outrage nor surprise.

The reply began as a distant buzz, a low hum formed somewhere in the invisible depths of the horizon, gradually escalating into a plethora of whistling whispers and finally converging into something that resembled – but only barely – a voice. Some of its sounds were decipherable, forming syllables and phonemes, but everything else was thoroughly unnatural.

“I am here, Ardras…”, the words flowed from all directions, “With you. Everywhere.”

“What is the meaning of this, brother? Show yourself!”, Ardras commanded.

“It is far too late for that... brother...”, voices ran in the wind, echoing from multiple sources simultaneously, “There is no longer a… self. I am undone, and soon… soon, brother, you will be, too.”

Thunder roared once again and, in the brief moment preceding it, Ardras thought he’d seen a gargantuan shadow in the sky, bearing down on him. He then felt untold amounts of raw magic energy being siphoned from the earth, and muttered a hasty incantation under his breath.

Almost immediately, snow and hail descended upon the land, stones as big as oranges cruelly obliterating everything on the surface of an already broken landscape. If Ardras hadn’t turned his skin to metal a moment before, he’d most likely have perished in the onslaught of icy missiles.

“What nonsense is this, Grítias?”, he shouted in the eye of a newborn hurricane, “Have you followed Fírien down the path of madness?”

He wobbled and tumbled, climbing to his feet and falling again, unable to keep his balance under the sheer fury of Grítias’s attack. His body was tossed and swirled around freely, much in the manner of a scarecrow caught in a tornado.

“Reason with me!”, shouted Ardras all the while, whose undignified frustration lent the scene an absurd and pathetic quality, “This is pointless! What on earth do you… Grítias! Reason with me!”

The wrath of the storm subsided just enough that Ardras could be reached by the low, mournful murmur that was one of Grítias’s many voices:

“You do not comprehend”

“Save us”, a second voice added.

“This in order to…”, another spoke.

Utterances poured from the storm concurrently:

“Redemption”

“Sacrifice”

“Atonement”

“You do not understand”

“…cannot understand”

“What do you mean?! Speak plainly!”, bellowed Ardras through broken teeth. The metallic coat had been deformed, his figure reduced to a shambling, semi-naked bronze statue in a sea of frozen whiteness. “What is it that you want?! I’ve been patient, Grítias! I haven’t so far raised my hand against you, but by the staff of Palier I will if I must!”

When Ardras’s threat went unanswered, he started casting his own spells, some of which repaired and fortified his body by reaching for available minerals in the soil beneath and assimilating them. In half a minute, Ardras had mutated into a metallic being not unlike the legendary golems employed by wizards of old to protect their towers. Five meters tall and utterly impregnable, his smooth surface glistened moistly in the darkness that ensued with the blizzard. Winds of unrecorded ferocity roared and hissed around the mage, yet he stood there in defiant stillness – unmovable, safely anchored to the ground by the sheer weight of his metal frame.

Ardras was safe in the fortress of his body. Intimately, he needed only decide what his next move would be, which didn’t prove difficult: “Though it is a shame and a waste”, he thought, “It is my woeful duty to end his insanity. Fare thee well, Grítias Nendúril…”. Then he proceeded to ready the very same incantation he’d used to slay Fírien.

Yet, before he could conclude it, a monumental spark lit the firmament. Ardras understood, in the shortest of instants between that spark and what came afterwards, that he’d grossly underestimated Grítias. He also realized that, in doing so, he’d fallen victim to an obvious trap: Grítias boasted a unique mastery over all elements of air and electricity; he’d only refrained from employing the second until Ardras executed the defensive maneuver of turning his entire body to metal. Right then, Ardras was completely impervious to physical attacks – and he was also a very large lightning rod sticking out of the earth.

When Grítias flashed down from the skies in something that resembled the Spark of Creation itself, the frightful outcome was not survived by anything within several miles. The wound inflicted on the earth was so deep that a young volcano blossomed at the very spot of the bolt’s landing. Thereupon, the fury of the elements receded, and a dead quietness fell across Einlaril and its neighboring lands.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 14:04.
2 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quarta-feira, Janeiro 19

A Nameless Tale Interlude
"Lady Serena, daughter of Norim"

It is said that the most universally awesome experience that mankind knows is to stand alone on a clear night and look at the stars: It was the gods who first set the stars in space; they are their Makers and Masters, and such is Their power and Their majesty. In the dead of night, Serena stands in quiet, deep contemplation of the firmament - or at least one might say so who looked upon her. Still, the glow of religious ecstasy doesn't light her gentle features, but rather a feverish brow and quivering lips tell the tale of a burdened soul. Being a master paladin, Serena's led a life dedicated to weeding the world of all true darkness and the unholy abominations spawned therein. This night, however, she strays from the campfire near which her companions rest in order to cope with a thoroughly new experience: For the very first time in her young life, Serena is afraid.

"Mother, give me courage,
for perhaps I lack it now more than anything else.

I need courage to sustain my resolve
and to renew my strength.

I need courage to shield my heart against
all self-doubt and contradiction.

I need courage to fight against devils,
against terrors and troubles, temptations,
bitterness, darkness and false lights,
against tears, disillusion and, above all, fear.

I need Your help, Mother.
Strengthen me with Your love and Your grace.

Console me with Your blessed Presence
and grant me the courage to persevere
until I am with You forever in Heaven."

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 23:58.
1 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quarta-feira, Setembro 8

A Nameless Tale (cryptic) Interlude

"The End of Árien Míniel"

Setting: Árien Míniel meets Cyophagros, the Archangel of Hardship, as she climbs the Stairway of Palier.

Cyophagros: [bowing] Milady.

Árien: [tearful] O Archangel, pray tell me t’is all but a lurid nightmare and I remain estranged still in the fogs of my ethereal confinement.

Cyophagros: [frowning, respectful] Alas, daughter of elves, nay.

Árien: [collapses, suffocating sobs in the soft fabric of her sleeve] Ah, heavenly page, if you knew what woe poisons my heart.

Cyophagros: [grave] My name is Adversity, child: I know it better than yourself… But you, wearing the cloak of your grief so blatantly in this place! Verily, you are ill-advised to do so. Confide: Why have you come?

Árien: Have we not been promised eternity? What transgression have I committed to fall so far out of His favour?

Cyophagros: Careful, little queen. Your words betray a dark stain in your spirit. Have you forgotten my role on this Bridge?

Árien: Nay, angel. But we’ve done naught but carry out His bidding in life, and yet here I stand before you a widow.

Cyophagros: I grant you one final warning, prophetess… The only life you live is the life you choose to live. I, on the other hand, am compelled by my only nature.

Árien: [rising in anger] Dare you threaten me now, after millennia of faithful, unquestioning service?!

Cyophagros: We are well past the usefulness of threats, lady Árien of the House Míniel. The only thing left is duty. [Smiling in ecstasy, gazing up at the clouds] But fear not, for the young one who received your blessing came to me, and he has carried out the will of Palier adequately. Through his actions, the last of the dark immortal ones is finally spent, and your legacy shall not be lost.

Árien: [confused] But that is not what I had foreseen at all…

Cyophagros: Rest your soul, child. These matters are none of your concern anymore. [Growing dark and somber] Now take my hand.

Árien: [perplexed] What? Your hand? You… He… would send me… into the Dawn? Why?! [in sudden realization] I… Oh, gods… But my children…

Cyophagros: …will carve their own place in History. By themselves.

[several seconds are spent in silence]

Árien: [tears streaming] I’m… sorry. I’m so sorry.

Cyophagros: [gentle, touching her shoulder, a whisper] I know. Even better than you do, I know… Now come.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 13:35.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quarta-feira, Setembro 1

A Nameless Tale Interlude

"Excerpt from the Sea Journal of Captain J.E. Flecker"

Having counted a thousand waves and made an offering of something that had been precious to me, I stepped into the sea (left foot first) and was granted temporary release from the mundane need to draw breath. I waded for a long time, carrying rocks in my backpack lest the tide should drag me to unintended ends. The invisible trail led me to a shallow reef where, sitting at a desk and looking rather busy with its documents and books, the dark figure of a sea demon laboured quietly. Without so much as turning to face me, it enquired about the reason of my unannounced appearance. I responded truthfully, saying that the results of our last agreement had left me deeply dissatisfied, and that I wished to receive compensation or have my belongings – which I had traded in good faith – returned. The fact is that the fiend had not failed to fulfill its part of the bargain but, by making use of deceitful wordplay in establishing the contract terms, it had managed to pervert my end of the agreement entirely. The consequences for me, I might add, were nothing short of dire; but knowing a thing or two about how to deal with these creatures, I had managed to seek out the beast in its own lair, and demand reparation befitting the unpleasantness I’d been put through.

“No take-backs”, it replied coolly. However, realizing that I was adamant in my resolve (which could mean lingering around and eventually drowning at its doorstep – a risk I was prepared to take!), the demon offered to make a compromise. It proposed a new bargain, through which I could have my damned compensation – if I was able to keep my end of it, that is. I signed without reading, thrust the contract in my pocket and retraced my steps back to the shore as fast as I could, for I knew I’d very soon need to fill my lungs with air once more. I barely made it.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 16:44.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quinta-feira, Abril 1

A Nameless Tale Interlude
"All Old Men Know Each Other"

The two old men sit by the fireplace in a cozy stone-floored kitchen. One is very thin and wears a flamboyant robe with extravagant patterns embroidered in golden thread. His name is Kaspra and he holds a crystal cup filled with wine. The other is an austere-looking, long-bearded man smoking his pipe and puffing up rings every now and then.

“Reckon they’re anywhere near the City of Damascus, old bum?”, asks Kaspra.

“They better be”, replies the other, “Though I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Of course you wouldn’t”, laughs the first one thinly, “You haven't got one! You’re dead, demented geezer, dead as a doornail!”

“Cheers!”, toasts the bearded man, raising his own chalice with a smile.

And both of them laugh and toast and proceed to take long sips from their cups.

“Speaking of which”, says Kaspra with sudden urgency and interrupting his guest’s fit of laughter, “Why in the name of the seven Potentates of Hell do you continue eating, drinking and smoking that fetid pipe of yours?”

“To make you miserable, why else?”, retorts the other, winking and sending a stream of purplish smoke directly in Kaspra’s face – who spends the next two minutes coughing and cursing.

“I swear on my indignity, Mordamir, you’re even worse than the people I had to put up with before I clawed my way up to this plane!”

“This is quite flattering, coming from an ancient demon such as you.”

“No, it isn’t!”, hisses Kaspra with one final and long cough, “Being an annoying old fart isn’t worth a compliment, regardless of where you come from. The universe is severely lacking in grace, if you ask me. To do evil gracefully, for instance, takes savoir-faire. It is a deep matter of taste and breed.”

“Are you trying to berate me, now?”, uttered Mordamir with a frown.

“Oh, far from it, far from it!”, said the quick demon in a conciliatory tone, “You see – In spite of these disgusting vices inherited from your mortal life, it would be unfair not to acknowledge your talents. Also, you’re my very dear guest, so I apologize if I somehow offended you more than I intended to.”

“Do tell, however”, continued Kaspra, leaning towards Mordamir, “It’s been a long time since that maggot you call disciple last paid me a visit and, to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t at all impressed with him or his companions. Are you certain they will be able to carry out their task?”

“Alas, there should be no such thing as certainty in this world, only probability and the wild spark of chance”, replied Mordamir while he refueled his pipe.

The firewood cracked and disjointed scenes played briefly in the flames: A bard opening the sky with his music. A greedy sorceress, a reckless warrior, a thief losing his arm during an attempt to steal a mystic artifact. A female paladin wielding a very unpleasant sword. A dark woman in chains. All this and much more, image after image, caught and trapped in the old dead wizard’s eye.

“Hopefully, they’ll manage…”, added Mordamir, wistfully, “I must admit, I do miss the taste of smoked ham.”

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 15:41.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quarta-feira, Dezembro 30

A Nameless Tale Episode
"Morning in Saravossa - part 1"

The soil in the courtyard was wet. “So this is where you rest, now”, the man thought, kneeling and sinking his fingers in the mud. “At least I pray that it is rest that you have found … I pray, and I hope that your torments could not follow you in the afterlife”.

“I wonder if I should feel as guilty as I do. I never meant you any harm. Not to you, not to anyone else. Perhaps I was too eager, and it cost me, and it cost you and others too, but mostly me and you. I wonder – if we had come face to face before the end – I wonder if you would have listened to me, or if spite would have gotten the best of you.”

In that freezing dawn, the sun was a pale disk far up in the depths of the mist. A miserable wind blew from the continent, brushing low tufts of fog unnaturally towards the sea.

“Now you’re gone, and the whole point is moot…”

After a few moments of silent prayer, he produced a silver chain and locket from an inside pocket of his coat, placed it carefully on the soft mud and watched it slide a bit into the soil. He felt as if he were sinking with it.

“Be at peace, my sister. I have missed you, and always will.”

A vigorous breeze was the only answer he got. It whistled in the parapets of the partially crumbled fortress around him, it chilled the tips of his ears. It swept dust and leaves and sea birds all mixed with the morning mist before his tired eyes. “All things must pass, dear sister”, he whispered inconsequentially, rising to his feet.

“All things, yes, but why you?” – he thought.

Standing, he felt the pressure of the wind on his back, on which his cape pressed and waved frantically. Only then did he feel the presence. Only then, and it didn’t surprise him too much… If his sister had been in that place, why not this one person too? Coming to think of it, being there was practically asking to be found: Stupid and reckless. But she had been his sister, and he had to say goodbye to her.

He didn’t move, he didn’t look around, searching for the source of the killing blow. There was no point in it, and he wanted his death to be peaceful. Without confrontation, he offered his executioner a clean kill.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 14:43.
2 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Quarta-feira, Dezembro 9

Their Finest Art

The Genius of the Crowd
by Henry Charles Bukowski (1920 – 1994)

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 15:44.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Segunda-feira, Novembro 23

A Nameless Tale Interlude
"The Three Sages"

Legend tells of three sages who successfully sought out Old Damascus. As a reward for all the grief and toil they had endured during the long journey, each was granted a gift of his choosing. Being sages, it was natural that they valued knowledge above all else - However, they also understood the perils and the pains which followed every step taken towards a deeper comprehension of the universe. And so it was that – sensibly – none of them wished to be granted infinite knowledge, but rather they decided to divide such wisdom in three equal measures, which they agreed to bear separately. The first sage would be granted the answers to all questions starting in “What”; the second sage would guard the answers to every inquiry beginning in “Why”, and the third sage – in his turn – would take for him all the answers to questions phrased with “When”. Thus each of them became immeasurably wise, and together they held the answers to all the questions that may be uttered by mortal lips.

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 13:57.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.

Segunda-feira, Maio 4

1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
2. A robot must obey orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

(Three Laws of Robotics, as written by Isaac Asimov)

Human Is

After reading the works of Isaac Asimov, a curious thought occurred to me: that perhaps the most remarkable feature of humanity – and what makes our minds viable in the first place – is our uncanny, innate ability to withstand self-contradiction; our capacity to endure (if not indefinitely, at least for a reasonable amount of time) the enormous tension produced by the coexistence of thoughts, ideas and urges that are diametrically opposed and utterly irreconcilable. The robotic mind could never operate and survive encumbered by such incompatibilities. We do it on a daily basis! – and perhaps that is what Lovecraft had in mind when he wrote "The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents".

Alex amplificou pensamentos às 00:31.
0 outros pensamentos foram amplificados. Amplifique os seus.