Ataraxis
08-06-08, 12:47 PM
If you're wondering, #1 was this here (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=16866).
Dear and fellow Althanians,
Last week, I failed to deliver on the promise of MOAR. As you all (should) know, every week will see that a writer be given the recognition he or she deserves for excellence in their written work. Having thus raised your hopes of receiving sweet acclaim, I crushed them mercilessly under my heel with the utmost satis–
That being said, I deliver upon this day not one, not three, but TWO names that should be exalted to (further) celebrity. Owing to our unparalleled conceit, our kingly selves will name this state of week-long superiority Ataraxis’ Momentous Hall of Eyyyyyyyy! Yes? No? Move on? Okay.
Lo and Behold, the names!
First in line, for the Award of Best Quality Slapstick Post during the seven days between the 23rd and 30th of July, Caden Law in Not Quite Homecoming (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=127267)!
"Oh, you know...things." Caden shrugged, pulling off the practiced vagueries of Wizardry with an ease that actually did more to calm and comfort him than his actual homecoming. "Perhaps a Wand, or a Rod, or..."
He stopped short, in the way that heterosexual men do when that weak little thing clicks in the part of the brain devoted to the abstract concept of Masculinity. The halt was played artfully well, as Caden waved a hand and idled back from Jay a few steps to do it. Chiefly because Masculinity had noticed that Jay was acting a bit queer, even by Wizarding standards (which, among other things, include fully grown men and women running around in dresses and wearing pointed hats and speaking in languages that don't exist). Oh, sure. Caden had faced down lithe assassins, maniacal Warlocks and rampaging barbarians, but that was a bridge he was not quite ready to cross. Yet. Probably ever.
Which is why a few things happened almost as soon as he'd finished speaking. One is that he bumped an elbow into Nirvana's rather ample breasts, which tended to preceed the rest of her a little bit. The second is that he jerked away and somehow made the whole thing look intentional by flinging an arm around her shoulders and pointing forward.
"And pardon my interruption, but I sense magic in this girl's pu...cat," Caden corrected himself immediately. It bears mention that 'Raven had been blue for about two or three years now. Make of that what you will. "And it would be best if she were kept near her familiar, yes." Which is why he very artfully repositioned Nirvana between himself and Jay. "Before it breaks something."
As if on cue, Tiddles was gone when anyone next looked for him. His disappearance was followed by a metallic rattle and a chorus of shrill profanities; not unlike a parrot with a grasp of human obscenity.
Caden smiled, wide and reassuring and wholly natural. Whether Nirvana echoed the expression or not, Jay could be pardoned for a little unn sound as he turned and ambled down the stairs. Nirvana followed, and Caden brought up the rear with an expression of unconcealed relief.
"Welcome to the real Arcane Outfitters of Salvargh," Jay spat upon reaching the bottom of the stairs. The pudgy little neckbeard of a Wizard darted out of view an instant later, and Caden and Nirvana were left to clear the remaining dozen or so steps without his charming presence to keep them company.
The actual shop itself wasn't particularly impressive, but it wasn't quite as ridiculous as you'd expect either. It was obviously a conversion of an old wine cellar, or perhaps a very large basement, but it was one that was well done. The lighting was very deliberate; plenty of dramatic shadows, but all the important details (except pricetags) were readily apparent and easy to see even without moving anything. The walls had been expanded and reangled to form a perfect octagon, hidden away behind shelves and wracks with a good selection of genuine magical items -- and it was all neatly organized too, with a few more shelves and some robe-wracks to occupy the center of the floor.
A single table stood in contrast to everything else, its edges covered in runes and the air above and around it looking strangely compressed. Light bent and thinned and wrenched itself to fit a smaller space, piling in until the actual details were lost. Caden recognized it for what it was though, and whether Nirvana prompted it or not, he gave a whistle and explained: "A desk of holding. Compresses the dimensions above and around it so that the owner can effectively stuff a full-fledged laboratory into a small space."
Looking at the desk drew one's eyes up though, to the lines chalked onto the ceiling; all white and purple and delicately patterned. Lining the interior were harshly etched lines that Caden recognized as Sideways Diamonic -- a calendar set-up listing the Names of every single day in the Occult year as part of a barrier spell. Contain the year and you contain everything in it, including magic. A glance down at the floor and more lines stood out, once you bothered to look for them. These were actual pieces of woodwork though, thin bits of Liviol that had been Worked into the very make-up of the hardwood floors through alchemy or enchantment (or, less likely, with a really good saw and hammer and a lot of bandages for busted thumbs).
This too was a containment spell, but the Sideways Diamonic lines etched into it were passages from containment textbooks. Description theory in action, describing all the effects of magic gone wrong and ending every single description with a symbol roughly translating as and nothing happened. Thorough work by any standard. Caden explained this to Nirvana, who merely nodded. Gods only know if she actually comprehended it or not.
More circles littered the floor, and a few were visible on the empty spaces of the walls and beneath certain things on the shelves. These were all chalk, and many looked fresh enough to show the efforts of maintenance and actual care...
...and then there was the empty guilded cage not far from the Desk of Holding, its delicately crafted door hanging ajar. Not far from it, a pair of almost cherubic little imp-things were buzzing about, chittering like irate parrots while a third was flailing around on the floor beneath the paw of a very attentive (and somehow snarky looking) Tiddles, who had eyes locked with Jay. Listen closely now. Very closely. Inch your ear to the fourth wall, squint a little and you might hear the emotion of the moment playing itself out in the subtext of Jay's obscenities and lack of actual violence against the offending cat.
...do I feel lucky? someone probably asked in another time and place. Well. Do ya? Punk?
"You know," Caden eventually said, more to himself than anyone else. "I'm actually sort of impressed."
And now, for the Award of Most Tastefully Villainous Post during the seven days between the 30th of July and the 6th of August, Malagen in I Want You to Quicken my End (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=128226)!
There were more people in the marketplace than there were fleas on a beggar, and yet Malagen felt alone. It was a peculiar emotion for the barbarian, a novelty that his system couldn’t quite digest yet. Not so long ago he would’ve been able to shrug off these ridiculous emotions as if they were no more than lint on his sleeve. But the infrangible equanimity that once reigned supreme in his head was nearly gone. He could still latch onto the threads of it, on the fragmented remains that still bestowed him with composure, but that absolute calm, that perfect balance that enabled him to be an infallible killing machine, was gone. And it was all because of that damned woman.
Ira Shinkara had been the culprit, the stone that created the ripples on the surface that was perfectly still once upon a time. A strong woman she was, unlike any Malagen met before, proud, unyielding, defiant even when they battled and he held her life in his hands. Initially, he found such stubbornness in a woman intriguing, interesting in a way a two-headed calf was or a magician with a trick that was hard to see through. But she turned out to be more than just a forgettable attraction. She grew on him, like a disease that grew on a healthy organ, like a plague that spread and ruined the world. And somewhere along the way, she had awoken a side of him that he never knew existed, opened the door that led to a room filled with feelings he had locked away so many years ago.
He thought he loved her because of that.
He wound up hating her instead.
It happened several weeks ago, in a middle of a night no different than the one before it or the one before that one. The wench that somehow broke through the walls he had been building ever since he could remember, the goddamned bitch that crawled inside of him like the snake she was, she upped and left. Some missions to do, other people to care about, and there was no room for him to tag along. Malagen didn’t hate her because of the pain her abandonment caused. He hated her because she made him vulnerable to that pain. Because that pain made him feel alone now, alien to the people around him. Even when he conversed with them, it was merely out of necessity and little else.
On the other side of the counter, in a weapon shop of some renown, a blacksmith swore on the grave of his dead mother (amongst other things) that the sword he sloppily brandished was the best blade in all of Radasanth. The slick-haired man swung it around with the skills of a weekend adventurer, proving once again that sword-makers usually wield hammer and prongs with some skill, but little else. Not that it mattered to Malagen in the long run. He didn’t have the money for the prevalida blade and he couldn’t just kill a man and take it from him. Because that would be wrong. Ira said that. “You can’t just kill an innocent man!” or some other righteous baloney like that. Perhaps it was time to quit listening to the voice that brought him naught but ache and unrest.
“Two and a half thousand and it’s yours,” the shop-keeper concluded his pitch, sheathing the weapon and laying it down on the red velvet in which it had been wrapped. “You won’t find a better offer anywhere.”
Malagen picked up the weapon and examined it. It truly was a magnificent blade, sharpened with delicate care, hilt motifs hand-carved in ebony, sheath polished to the point he could see his disfigured reflection in the blackened wood. It lacked the hilt guard like his saber, but it wasn’t a weapon made for defense anyways. It was a killing machine, an object made for a single purpose; destruction. And it needed an appropriate wielder.
“I have a better offer,” Malagen uttered after nearly a minute of careful examination, the unnatural, dead calm clear in his tone. His sword arm, however, was anything but calm. It moved with such a speed that if you’d blink as it started moving, you’d open your eyes to a blade touching the sallow skin of the salesman’s neck. The two watchmen that guarded the shop reacted immediately, their clumsy, sweaty hands reaching for the hilts on their hips. But before they even touched the leather, the barbarian had his saber out with his offhand, pointing it at one of the sentries. His eyes were still on the proprietor of the shop. “I let you and your goons live and you let me have the blade. Three lives spared. I think it’s a fair price.”
The interior of the shop became so quiet that the sounds of the murmur outside the door seemed intrusive, loud enough to disrupt the standstill. It seemed that any one of them could make the entire scene go downhill. “Hmm?” Malagen asked with a grinning gesture. “No?” Still there was no response. “Very well. You won’t deal with reason. We’ll deal in blood.”
Chaos overtook the interior of the shop, sounds of metal clashing, wood breaking and flesh tearing available for every passerby to hear. One of them, a gawky teenager with a sack of flour on his shoulder, was curious enough to spy on the cause of this ruckus. And once he did, his cry “MURDERER!” spread across the Bazaar like a shockwave. Covered in blood, with both his blades drawn and soiled by the life liquid of his three victims, Malagen emerged from the shop, a fuel for the wave of panic that spread in an almost concentric circle around him. Playing the nice guy hadn’t paid off. It was time to play the villain again.Congratulations to the both of you! Now, you have received these awards for rather obvious reasons when one reads the excerpts from your respective quests, but if you feel like preening at the gala and/or thanking a list of friends, relatives or kindly benefactors, you may speak now or forever hold your peace. And I mean NAO.
In other news, stay tuned for next week when Manda brings Althanas… uh, this guy (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e4/Eduard_von_Gr%C3%BCtzner_Falstaff.jpg). Maybe.
Dear and fellow Althanians,
Last week, I failed to deliver on the promise of MOAR. As you all (should) know, every week will see that a writer be given the recognition he or she deserves for excellence in their written work. Having thus raised your hopes of receiving sweet acclaim, I crushed them mercilessly under my heel with the utmost satis–
That being said, I deliver upon this day not one, not three, but TWO names that should be exalted to (further) celebrity. Owing to our unparalleled conceit, our kingly selves will name this state of week-long superiority Ataraxis’ Momentous Hall of Eyyyyyyyy! Yes? No? Move on? Okay.
Lo and Behold, the names!
First in line, for the Award of Best Quality Slapstick Post during the seven days between the 23rd and 30th of July, Caden Law in Not Quite Homecoming (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=127267)!
"Oh, you know...things." Caden shrugged, pulling off the practiced vagueries of Wizardry with an ease that actually did more to calm and comfort him than his actual homecoming. "Perhaps a Wand, or a Rod, or..."
He stopped short, in the way that heterosexual men do when that weak little thing clicks in the part of the brain devoted to the abstract concept of Masculinity. The halt was played artfully well, as Caden waved a hand and idled back from Jay a few steps to do it. Chiefly because Masculinity had noticed that Jay was acting a bit queer, even by Wizarding standards (which, among other things, include fully grown men and women running around in dresses and wearing pointed hats and speaking in languages that don't exist). Oh, sure. Caden had faced down lithe assassins, maniacal Warlocks and rampaging barbarians, but that was a bridge he was not quite ready to cross. Yet. Probably ever.
Which is why a few things happened almost as soon as he'd finished speaking. One is that he bumped an elbow into Nirvana's rather ample breasts, which tended to preceed the rest of her a little bit. The second is that he jerked away and somehow made the whole thing look intentional by flinging an arm around her shoulders and pointing forward.
"And pardon my interruption, but I sense magic in this girl's pu...cat," Caden corrected himself immediately. It bears mention that 'Raven had been blue for about two or three years now. Make of that what you will. "And it would be best if she were kept near her familiar, yes." Which is why he very artfully repositioned Nirvana between himself and Jay. "Before it breaks something."
As if on cue, Tiddles was gone when anyone next looked for him. His disappearance was followed by a metallic rattle and a chorus of shrill profanities; not unlike a parrot with a grasp of human obscenity.
Caden smiled, wide and reassuring and wholly natural. Whether Nirvana echoed the expression or not, Jay could be pardoned for a little unn sound as he turned and ambled down the stairs. Nirvana followed, and Caden brought up the rear with an expression of unconcealed relief.
"Welcome to the real Arcane Outfitters of Salvargh," Jay spat upon reaching the bottom of the stairs. The pudgy little neckbeard of a Wizard darted out of view an instant later, and Caden and Nirvana were left to clear the remaining dozen or so steps without his charming presence to keep them company.
The actual shop itself wasn't particularly impressive, but it wasn't quite as ridiculous as you'd expect either. It was obviously a conversion of an old wine cellar, or perhaps a very large basement, but it was one that was well done. The lighting was very deliberate; plenty of dramatic shadows, but all the important details (except pricetags) were readily apparent and easy to see even without moving anything. The walls had been expanded and reangled to form a perfect octagon, hidden away behind shelves and wracks with a good selection of genuine magical items -- and it was all neatly organized too, with a few more shelves and some robe-wracks to occupy the center of the floor.
A single table stood in contrast to everything else, its edges covered in runes and the air above and around it looking strangely compressed. Light bent and thinned and wrenched itself to fit a smaller space, piling in until the actual details were lost. Caden recognized it for what it was though, and whether Nirvana prompted it or not, he gave a whistle and explained: "A desk of holding. Compresses the dimensions above and around it so that the owner can effectively stuff a full-fledged laboratory into a small space."
Looking at the desk drew one's eyes up though, to the lines chalked onto the ceiling; all white and purple and delicately patterned. Lining the interior were harshly etched lines that Caden recognized as Sideways Diamonic -- a calendar set-up listing the Names of every single day in the Occult year as part of a barrier spell. Contain the year and you contain everything in it, including magic. A glance down at the floor and more lines stood out, once you bothered to look for them. These were actual pieces of woodwork though, thin bits of Liviol that had been Worked into the very make-up of the hardwood floors through alchemy or enchantment (or, less likely, with a really good saw and hammer and a lot of bandages for busted thumbs).
This too was a containment spell, but the Sideways Diamonic lines etched into it were passages from containment textbooks. Description theory in action, describing all the effects of magic gone wrong and ending every single description with a symbol roughly translating as and nothing happened. Thorough work by any standard. Caden explained this to Nirvana, who merely nodded. Gods only know if she actually comprehended it or not.
More circles littered the floor, and a few were visible on the empty spaces of the walls and beneath certain things on the shelves. These were all chalk, and many looked fresh enough to show the efforts of maintenance and actual care...
...and then there was the empty guilded cage not far from the Desk of Holding, its delicately crafted door hanging ajar. Not far from it, a pair of almost cherubic little imp-things were buzzing about, chittering like irate parrots while a third was flailing around on the floor beneath the paw of a very attentive (and somehow snarky looking) Tiddles, who had eyes locked with Jay. Listen closely now. Very closely. Inch your ear to the fourth wall, squint a little and you might hear the emotion of the moment playing itself out in the subtext of Jay's obscenities and lack of actual violence against the offending cat.
...do I feel lucky? someone probably asked in another time and place. Well. Do ya? Punk?
"You know," Caden eventually said, more to himself than anyone else. "I'm actually sort of impressed."
And now, for the Award of Most Tastefully Villainous Post during the seven days between the 30th of July and the 6th of August, Malagen in I Want You to Quicken my End (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=128226)!
There were more people in the marketplace than there were fleas on a beggar, and yet Malagen felt alone. It was a peculiar emotion for the barbarian, a novelty that his system couldn’t quite digest yet. Not so long ago he would’ve been able to shrug off these ridiculous emotions as if they were no more than lint on his sleeve. But the infrangible equanimity that once reigned supreme in his head was nearly gone. He could still latch onto the threads of it, on the fragmented remains that still bestowed him with composure, but that absolute calm, that perfect balance that enabled him to be an infallible killing machine, was gone. And it was all because of that damned woman.
Ira Shinkara had been the culprit, the stone that created the ripples on the surface that was perfectly still once upon a time. A strong woman she was, unlike any Malagen met before, proud, unyielding, defiant even when they battled and he held her life in his hands. Initially, he found such stubbornness in a woman intriguing, interesting in a way a two-headed calf was or a magician with a trick that was hard to see through. But she turned out to be more than just a forgettable attraction. She grew on him, like a disease that grew on a healthy organ, like a plague that spread and ruined the world. And somewhere along the way, she had awoken a side of him that he never knew existed, opened the door that led to a room filled with feelings he had locked away so many years ago.
He thought he loved her because of that.
He wound up hating her instead.
It happened several weeks ago, in a middle of a night no different than the one before it or the one before that one. The wench that somehow broke through the walls he had been building ever since he could remember, the goddamned bitch that crawled inside of him like the snake she was, she upped and left. Some missions to do, other people to care about, and there was no room for him to tag along. Malagen didn’t hate her because of the pain her abandonment caused. He hated her because she made him vulnerable to that pain. Because that pain made him feel alone now, alien to the people around him. Even when he conversed with them, it was merely out of necessity and little else.
On the other side of the counter, in a weapon shop of some renown, a blacksmith swore on the grave of his dead mother (amongst other things) that the sword he sloppily brandished was the best blade in all of Radasanth. The slick-haired man swung it around with the skills of a weekend adventurer, proving once again that sword-makers usually wield hammer and prongs with some skill, but little else. Not that it mattered to Malagen in the long run. He didn’t have the money for the prevalida blade and he couldn’t just kill a man and take it from him. Because that would be wrong. Ira said that. “You can’t just kill an innocent man!” or some other righteous baloney like that. Perhaps it was time to quit listening to the voice that brought him naught but ache and unrest.
“Two and a half thousand and it’s yours,” the shop-keeper concluded his pitch, sheathing the weapon and laying it down on the red velvet in which it had been wrapped. “You won’t find a better offer anywhere.”
Malagen picked up the weapon and examined it. It truly was a magnificent blade, sharpened with delicate care, hilt motifs hand-carved in ebony, sheath polished to the point he could see his disfigured reflection in the blackened wood. It lacked the hilt guard like his saber, but it wasn’t a weapon made for defense anyways. It was a killing machine, an object made for a single purpose; destruction. And it needed an appropriate wielder.
“I have a better offer,” Malagen uttered after nearly a minute of careful examination, the unnatural, dead calm clear in his tone. His sword arm, however, was anything but calm. It moved with such a speed that if you’d blink as it started moving, you’d open your eyes to a blade touching the sallow skin of the salesman’s neck. The two watchmen that guarded the shop reacted immediately, their clumsy, sweaty hands reaching for the hilts on their hips. But before they even touched the leather, the barbarian had his saber out with his offhand, pointing it at one of the sentries. His eyes were still on the proprietor of the shop. “I let you and your goons live and you let me have the blade. Three lives spared. I think it’s a fair price.”
The interior of the shop became so quiet that the sounds of the murmur outside the door seemed intrusive, loud enough to disrupt the standstill. It seemed that any one of them could make the entire scene go downhill. “Hmm?” Malagen asked with a grinning gesture. “No?” Still there was no response. “Very well. You won’t deal with reason. We’ll deal in blood.”
Chaos overtook the interior of the shop, sounds of metal clashing, wood breaking and flesh tearing available for every passerby to hear. One of them, a gawky teenager with a sack of flour on his shoulder, was curious enough to spy on the cause of this ruckus. And once he did, his cry “MURDERER!” spread across the Bazaar like a shockwave. Covered in blood, with both his blades drawn and soiled by the life liquid of his three victims, Malagen emerged from the shop, a fuel for the wave of panic that spread in an almost concentric circle around him. Playing the nice guy hadn’t paid off. It was time to play the villain again.Congratulations to the both of you! Now, you have received these awards for rather obvious reasons when one reads the excerpts from your respective quests, but if you feel like preening at the gala and/or thanking a list of friends, relatives or kindly benefactors, you may speak now or forever hold your peace. And I mean NAO.
In other news, stay tuned for next week when Manda brings Althanas… uh, this guy (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e4/Eduard_von_Gr%C3%BCtzner_Falstaff.jpg). Maybe.