Ürei
03-25-06, 01:55 PM
Eternal blankness, yet beautiful in its own might. This was the best way to describe the field that stretched out in all directions around me, rolling hills covered with white. That white was the color of the Amyreth Rose, the very same rose for which I was named, Samyreth. A white lotus floating high on a silken white stalk, hiding its secret by coming in masses, for there was only one rose in this field. One entity, thousands of branches, for each of those roses contained, beneath the beauty, a dreadful secret. One closer glance will show endless bones littering the soil, solid in the amount, bloodstains soaking into roots, and bloodied tangles of thorn vines wrapped snugly around the base of each stalk. No mortal ever came here, lest they never leave.
Yet, in this field, there was only one discerning feature, the reason why my hill was so very different from every other hill. Upon my hill, a grand tree grew from a clearing in the tentacles of the Amyreth, glowing with a soft vermilion aura. This dark glow seemed to be a glass-thin slick coat that, when touched, seemed to shiver under your finger. Gradually the swirling random designs shifted and flowed across the tree, ever changing with the pace that all plant life upholds. It was this one enchantment that my siblings placed upon this tree before performing their last favor. There, atop my grave, in a time so long ago that this land was so very much different, they sang a powerfully imbued poem. This poem shortly became called The Thirteen Hours, and it was the poem, which dictated what was to happen, for my brothers and I were the last of those whom had the sight. For us, future, past, and present was all one continuous line that we could look down in any direction at any time.
That ability, however, left me with my death, for it was my blood that gave me such talent. Yet, what my siblings did not know was that when they sang this powerfully motivated prophecy over my grave, they set it in motion at that moment. It told of the Thirteen Hours, for there were thirteen of us siblings. My race itself was the inspiration for the name of the prophecy, for we have been called many names. Once the Ancients, many a time the Precursors, and more often the Hours. We had come by these names due to us being the only race upon Le`Aal that never aged, and that had survived the Recreation –the end of the last age, and the beginning of my age-; Le`Aal, which is the same planet but not the same world as Althanas, as it is called today.
Now, as I wake from my ethereal torpor, the first thing that comes to mind as I stare at the everlasting tree that marks both my grave, and my everlasting existence, is the Prophecy of the Thirteen Dawns. Sitting against the base of the tree, my ghostly vocal cords reach out, singing it aloud. My body, which appeared to be completely solid until the moment in which you try to touch me, or an object passes through my weightless body, shivered with the energy that flowed from my voice. As the prophecy is repeated, it is only strengthened for in this place, of all places, its power resides most.
“Before you, lies the Dawn.
The First Hour whispers,
‘Be you many, be you few,
Listen to me, or become askew.
In my Hour, all is but a dream.’
Behind you, says the Dusk.
The Second Hour whispers,
‘I am many, but you are few,
Listen to me, or become askew.
In my Hour, you are unworthy.’
All around, tells the Day.
The Third Hour whispers,
‘I am none, and you are few,
Listen to me, or stay askew.
In my Hour, only death is dull.’
Truly beneath, sobs the Night.
The Fourth Hour whispers,
‘I am gone, but you are still few,
Speak to me, or fall to the askew.
In my Hour, it can be forgotten.’
Above and beyond, mutters the Morning.
The Fifth Hour whispers,
‘I am here, and you are but few,
Ignore me, and forget to be askew.
In my Hour, I listen onto to you.’
Within, speaks the Noon.
The Sixth Hour whispers,
‘Among you, we are few,
Forget me not, destiny’s askew.
In my Hour, a mourning rising again.’
Outside, utters the Afternoon.
The Seventh Hour whispers,
‘Forever for many, never for few,
Riddle me, is the lost man askew.
In my Hour, sense is not sensible.’
Inside, urges the Midnight.
The Eight Hour whispers,
‘Who are you, who is few,
Never, only you can be askew.
In my Hour, logic is as mine.’
Beside, sighs the Midday.
The Ninth Hour whispers,
‘I precede those who are few,
To show you not but to be askew.
In my Hour, the beginning begins.’
Between, screams the Intermediate.
The Tenth Hour whispers,
‘The minutes are becoming few,
As all of reality is left askew.
In my Hour, all is shown again.’
Forever, cries the Beginning.
The Eleventh Hour whispers,
‘I come before, to show the few,
What wrongs have made you askew.
In my Hour, Redemption comes.’
Never, laments the End.
The Twelfth Hour whispers,
‘In this day, in this night,
Forever on, and never to begin,
The Dawn has come,
Dusk will be forgotten,
And again, the days will be counted.
In my hour, it all begins.
In my hour, it ends.’ ”
Closing my mouth, and staring mournfully across the field, I look down at my outfit. It had been millennia since I was conscious last, and I barely remembered what I was wearing upon death. Informal wear, a white sleeveless shirt that showed my soft and pale skin. The ends of my soft, baggy pants caressed my bare feet that had not felt a living object in such a time that the sensation was forgotten. Auburn, curly hair hung in messy perfection from my scalp, half of my bangs always managing to cover my left eye, which dimly gleaned the same vermilion color floating through my grave. On each arm, a series of seven white bands rested, both holding soft black lettering. On the left, each bracelet held a Mortal Sin; Pride, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Greed, Gluttony, and Lust. On the right, each held a Mortal Virtue; Compassion, Honesty, Valor, Sacrifice, Humility, and Patience. Stepping out into the Amyreth field, I lifted myself up onto a rose as if it was a stepping-stone. In this realm, Aina, or as the current world calls it ‘Life’ my form was weightless, but I could not move through or interfere with the living realm in any way. Unlike some type of specters and spirits, I had never developed psychic powers or unsurpassable will to be able to physically effect the living, and thus I had slept in my tree, halfway between Aina and Eiga – as Althanians call it the realm of ‘Death’-.
Moving forward, I quickly traversed a large portion of the field to mount the next hill. From here, my hollow eyes swept across the field, seeing no discernable features of civilization in any direction. As my concentration pulled, tugging my body away from this realm, my form became misty. Finally, the threshold broke and my form faded away into some unfelt wind. When I opened my eyes again, I stared not at Aina, but at Eiga, the dark and dead realm in which only those whom are Dead can be seen. The hills were the same, however it was littered with bones and held no flowers to conceal them. The sky dulled to gray, no sunlight or generator of the general dark green ambience showed. Sounds echoed with eerie quality, but the physics of this world were different then that of the living world. Doors and windows were, for some unknowable reason, missing and those whom could cross between the realms could enter buildings in this method. For those whom had the skill of experience as I had not, they could appear to turn to mist then pass through a door, moving only halfway into Eiga to dissolve their form. Also, here, the dead moved at incredible speeds.
Using this ability, since crossing over between Aina and Eiga at will was my only ability gained by death [i]-except for my proficiency at languages, even being able to speak to water-, and only one retained in death, I moved forth. This time, instead of moving one step at a time, I seemed to move a thousand steps at a time. Each footfall brought me hundreds of miles in the direction I desired. Slowly, I caught on to the pattern of it and began moving larger and larger distances, moving into a slow walk which made me span incredible distances instantly. My form sped over the empty remains of where oceans lay in Aina, finally coming to a large continent I had to assume was now the new world. Even from this perspective, I knew the world had changed much since Althanas was born again. This was a different world then mine, and I would once more have to learn this history, before the Prophecy began to fall in place.
It has begun
Yet, in this field, there was only one discerning feature, the reason why my hill was so very different from every other hill. Upon my hill, a grand tree grew from a clearing in the tentacles of the Amyreth, glowing with a soft vermilion aura. This dark glow seemed to be a glass-thin slick coat that, when touched, seemed to shiver under your finger. Gradually the swirling random designs shifted and flowed across the tree, ever changing with the pace that all plant life upholds. It was this one enchantment that my siblings placed upon this tree before performing their last favor. There, atop my grave, in a time so long ago that this land was so very much different, they sang a powerfully imbued poem. This poem shortly became called The Thirteen Hours, and it was the poem, which dictated what was to happen, for my brothers and I were the last of those whom had the sight. For us, future, past, and present was all one continuous line that we could look down in any direction at any time.
That ability, however, left me with my death, for it was my blood that gave me such talent. Yet, what my siblings did not know was that when they sang this powerfully motivated prophecy over my grave, they set it in motion at that moment. It told of the Thirteen Hours, for there were thirteen of us siblings. My race itself was the inspiration for the name of the prophecy, for we have been called many names. Once the Ancients, many a time the Precursors, and more often the Hours. We had come by these names due to us being the only race upon Le`Aal that never aged, and that had survived the Recreation –the end of the last age, and the beginning of my age-; Le`Aal, which is the same planet but not the same world as Althanas, as it is called today.
Now, as I wake from my ethereal torpor, the first thing that comes to mind as I stare at the everlasting tree that marks both my grave, and my everlasting existence, is the Prophecy of the Thirteen Dawns. Sitting against the base of the tree, my ghostly vocal cords reach out, singing it aloud. My body, which appeared to be completely solid until the moment in which you try to touch me, or an object passes through my weightless body, shivered with the energy that flowed from my voice. As the prophecy is repeated, it is only strengthened for in this place, of all places, its power resides most.
“Before you, lies the Dawn.
The First Hour whispers,
‘Be you many, be you few,
Listen to me, or become askew.
In my Hour, all is but a dream.’
Behind you, says the Dusk.
The Second Hour whispers,
‘I am many, but you are few,
Listen to me, or become askew.
In my Hour, you are unworthy.’
All around, tells the Day.
The Third Hour whispers,
‘I am none, and you are few,
Listen to me, or stay askew.
In my Hour, only death is dull.’
Truly beneath, sobs the Night.
The Fourth Hour whispers,
‘I am gone, but you are still few,
Speak to me, or fall to the askew.
In my Hour, it can be forgotten.’
Above and beyond, mutters the Morning.
The Fifth Hour whispers,
‘I am here, and you are but few,
Ignore me, and forget to be askew.
In my Hour, I listen onto to you.’
Within, speaks the Noon.
The Sixth Hour whispers,
‘Among you, we are few,
Forget me not, destiny’s askew.
In my Hour, a mourning rising again.’
Outside, utters the Afternoon.
The Seventh Hour whispers,
‘Forever for many, never for few,
Riddle me, is the lost man askew.
In my Hour, sense is not sensible.’
Inside, urges the Midnight.
The Eight Hour whispers,
‘Who are you, who is few,
Never, only you can be askew.
In my Hour, logic is as mine.’
Beside, sighs the Midday.
The Ninth Hour whispers,
‘I precede those who are few,
To show you not but to be askew.
In my Hour, the beginning begins.’
Between, screams the Intermediate.
The Tenth Hour whispers,
‘The minutes are becoming few,
As all of reality is left askew.
In my Hour, all is shown again.’
Forever, cries the Beginning.
The Eleventh Hour whispers,
‘I come before, to show the few,
What wrongs have made you askew.
In my Hour, Redemption comes.’
Never, laments the End.
The Twelfth Hour whispers,
‘In this day, in this night,
Forever on, and never to begin,
The Dawn has come,
Dusk will be forgotten,
And again, the days will be counted.
In my hour, it all begins.
In my hour, it ends.’ ”
Closing my mouth, and staring mournfully across the field, I look down at my outfit. It had been millennia since I was conscious last, and I barely remembered what I was wearing upon death. Informal wear, a white sleeveless shirt that showed my soft and pale skin. The ends of my soft, baggy pants caressed my bare feet that had not felt a living object in such a time that the sensation was forgotten. Auburn, curly hair hung in messy perfection from my scalp, half of my bangs always managing to cover my left eye, which dimly gleaned the same vermilion color floating through my grave. On each arm, a series of seven white bands rested, both holding soft black lettering. On the left, each bracelet held a Mortal Sin; Pride, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Greed, Gluttony, and Lust. On the right, each held a Mortal Virtue; Compassion, Honesty, Valor, Sacrifice, Humility, and Patience. Stepping out into the Amyreth field, I lifted myself up onto a rose as if it was a stepping-stone. In this realm, Aina, or as the current world calls it ‘Life’ my form was weightless, but I could not move through or interfere with the living realm in any way. Unlike some type of specters and spirits, I had never developed psychic powers or unsurpassable will to be able to physically effect the living, and thus I had slept in my tree, halfway between Aina and Eiga – as Althanians call it the realm of ‘Death’-.
Moving forward, I quickly traversed a large portion of the field to mount the next hill. From here, my hollow eyes swept across the field, seeing no discernable features of civilization in any direction. As my concentration pulled, tugging my body away from this realm, my form became misty. Finally, the threshold broke and my form faded away into some unfelt wind. When I opened my eyes again, I stared not at Aina, but at Eiga, the dark and dead realm in which only those whom are Dead can be seen. The hills were the same, however it was littered with bones and held no flowers to conceal them. The sky dulled to gray, no sunlight or generator of the general dark green ambience showed. Sounds echoed with eerie quality, but the physics of this world were different then that of the living world. Doors and windows were, for some unknowable reason, missing and those whom could cross between the realms could enter buildings in this method. For those whom had the skill of experience as I had not, they could appear to turn to mist then pass through a door, moving only halfway into Eiga to dissolve their form. Also, here, the dead moved at incredible speeds.
Using this ability, since crossing over between Aina and Eiga at will was my only ability gained by death [i]-except for my proficiency at languages, even being able to speak to water-, and only one retained in death, I moved forth. This time, instead of moving one step at a time, I seemed to move a thousand steps at a time. Each footfall brought me hundreds of miles in the direction I desired. Slowly, I caught on to the pattern of it and began moving larger and larger distances, moving into a slow walk which made me span incredible distances instantly. My form sped over the empty remains of where oceans lay in Aina, finally coming to a large continent I had to assume was now the new world. Even from this perspective, I knew the world had changed much since Althanas was born again. This was a different world then mine, and I would once more have to learn this history, before the Prophecy began to fall in place.
It has begun