Ashiakin
12-20-09, 05:04 PM
((This is a solo quest.))
"Any child can see that the map is not the ground. You cannot make a 'reliable' map. A map, like a scientific theory, or consciousness itself, is no more than a dream of control. The conscious mind operates at forty or fifty bits a second, and disorder is infinitely deep. Better admit that. Better lie back and enjoy it—especially since, without the processes implied by it, no one could write (or read) books anyway."
-- M. John Harrison, What It Might Be Like to Live in Viriconium
He had shielded his eyes to block out the glaring sun and when he lowered his hand it was like entering a dream. Mists of snow drifted through the air in the valley, falling on the shimmering armor of the dead, their bodies rotting inside indifferent husks. The metal that had been intended to protect them in battle seemed so ridiculous now, and the tatters of colored fabric—red for the Church, royal blue for the monarchists—seemed unable to recall any real meaning. The valley was full of snow and the dead and cold. It was Salvar.
Ashiakin stood on a hill overlooking the valley, shivering and sick. He had not taken part in the battle but had stumbled across its remains in his trek across the wastes. There was no heart in him left for fighting and even if there was his body was unlikely to allow it. He was a creature of Denebriel, crafted from human flesh and the magic of the Tap millennia ago and now his power was waning with hers. As the forces of the monarchists closed around Knife’s Edge to deliver the fatal blow to her dreams of a transcendent Salvar and an all-powerful Church, he could feel his own life slipping away from him. He had foolishly imagined himself to be immortal, but the way he rasped when exerting himself and the blood that he coughed up from time to time seemed to be telling him a hard truth about his own arrogance.
The battlefield was silent save for the whipping of torn flags in the breeze and the sound of his feet as they crunched through the snow, picking their way around the dead. That he might soon resemble one of the lifeless bodies being buried under Salvar’s uncaring weather was a thought a little too real for him to bear. But this was how it was. Things changed, often without planning or explanation. Landscapes shifted under the very feet of the people who walked them. There had never been any certainty in Salvar, in Althanas.
The climb up the other side of the valley was painful, sending claws raking down through his muscles and bones. He had always laughed at mortal pains or considered them with detached curiosity, but now he knew that he had never really understood them. As he rounded the top of the far hill, he had to blink his eyes to dismiss the snow for the first time since he could remember. The view beyond was disorienting. It was an indistinct landscape hidden behind a veil of misty snow, outlines of towns and landmarks and possibilities in the distance. He felt like he should have known this place better than Knife’s Edge, but it had transformed so much since he had last traveled here—the vast plains of snow and mountains rising near their end were ever the same, but it felt as if so many of the details had shifted in the days since he’d been there. It was his home in this world, in this time, but he could no longer gauge why.
He was traveling toward the tomb that the victors of the Wars of the Tap had sealed him within so many ages ago, the tomb he had broken free from to enter Althanas about ten years past. With all of Salvar embroiled in a conflict that he had helped to create, it seemed a place that he would be able to find a semblance of peace. He wanted a quiet place to die. As Ashiakin trudged through the snowy fields that surrounded his tomb, he felt cold for the first time in his long life.
"Any child can see that the map is not the ground. You cannot make a 'reliable' map. A map, like a scientific theory, or consciousness itself, is no more than a dream of control. The conscious mind operates at forty or fifty bits a second, and disorder is infinitely deep. Better admit that. Better lie back and enjoy it—especially since, without the processes implied by it, no one could write (or read) books anyway."
-- M. John Harrison, What It Might Be Like to Live in Viriconium
He had shielded his eyes to block out the glaring sun and when he lowered his hand it was like entering a dream. Mists of snow drifted through the air in the valley, falling on the shimmering armor of the dead, their bodies rotting inside indifferent husks. The metal that had been intended to protect them in battle seemed so ridiculous now, and the tatters of colored fabric—red for the Church, royal blue for the monarchists—seemed unable to recall any real meaning. The valley was full of snow and the dead and cold. It was Salvar.
Ashiakin stood on a hill overlooking the valley, shivering and sick. He had not taken part in the battle but had stumbled across its remains in his trek across the wastes. There was no heart in him left for fighting and even if there was his body was unlikely to allow it. He was a creature of Denebriel, crafted from human flesh and the magic of the Tap millennia ago and now his power was waning with hers. As the forces of the monarchists closed around Knife’s Edge to deliver the fatal blow to her dreams of a transcendent Salvar and an all-powerful Church, he could feel his own life slipping away from him. He had foolishly imagined himself to be immortal, but the way he rasped when exerting himself and the blood that he coughed up from time to time seemed to be telling him a hard truth about his own arrogance.
The battlefield was silent save for the whipping of torn flags in the breeze and the sound of his feet as they crunched through the snow, picking their way around the dead. That he might soon resemble one of the lifeless bodies being buried under Salvar’s uncaring weather was a thought a little too real for him to bear. But this was how it was. Things changed, often without planning or explanation. Landscapes shifted under the very feet of the people who walked them. There had never been any certainty in Salvar, in Althanas.
The climb up the other side of the valley was painful, sending claws raking down through his muscles and bones. He had always laughed at mortal pains or considered them with detached curiosity, but now he knew that he had never really understood them. As he rounded the top of the far hill, he had to blink his eyes to dismiss the snow for the first time since he could remember. The view beyond was disorienting. It was an indistinct landscape hidden behind a veil of misty snow, outlines of towns and landmarks and possibilities in the distance. He felt like he should have known this place better than Knife’s Edge, but it had transformed so much since he had last traveled here—the vast plains of snow and mountains rising near their end were ever the same, but it felt as if so many of the details had shifted in the days since he’d been there. It was his home in this world, in this time, but he could no longer gauge why.
He was traveling toward the tomb that the victors of the Wars of the Tap had sealed him within so many ages ago, the tomb he had broken free from to enter Althanas about ten years past. With all of Salvar embroiled in a conflict that he had helped to create, it seemed a place that he would be able to find a semblance of peace. He wanted a quiet place to die. As Ashiakin trudged through the snowy fields that surrounded his tomb, he felt cold for the first time in his long life.