[167] Keska: the Daemon Sun
Thu Oct 23 01:36:01 1997
To: all
. No pity, no regret, no joy, no love. Keska Srys-Sha'falas watched as the Drukkmai kkutta of Malice weaved the will of his dark god around the younger, weaker elf. Laikkt, clanmate, brother, she watched with the tired eye of one who had seen too much, and only wished to sleep, now, forever, and never to wake again to the cries of a laikkt in danger. She watched the will of a dark god break the will and life force of the younger elf.
. No pity, no regret, no joy, no love. Keska tried to care that she had not preformed her duty, but compassion failed to touch her. Her laikkt had been a fool, and was fated to die at the hands of the enemy, sooner or later. It was better now before anyone got too used to him in life.
. Her mind still hazy from the morning, she normally did not wake before day break, Keska smiled as the kkutta's god broke the elf child. She turned and stood motionless in front of the dark cleric. "Kkutta," she thought with mirth, "your god grants you enough power to kill a child, I pray that your god can kill me as well. Let darkness take Srys, and Kantilles's Makkkit is empty, I am alone and weak. Kill me, before my Gods wake."
. The Drukkmai kkutta and his dark god turned on Keska. She stood as prayers of evil filled the air, her mind, her body, sucking the life from her, crippling her, and she laughed with glee, drinking in the pain and death. Yes, she would die soon, finally she could sleep.
The Sun rises, and a forgotten god warms His creation. He seeks out his only follower, and sees her attempting to hide in the shadow. His daemon, but he can not kill her, though he has tried. Nor can He allow her to die at the hand of another God's power. He picked the Keska up, and tossed her elsewhere.
. Keska waited the death blow. Her eyes blinded by the Drukkmai's god, she felt warmth on her cheeks. Blood? No, sunlight, day had broken, Srys resumes his watch.
. The light of day consumed her in its warm beams, purging the kkutta's god from her body, and lifting her elsewhere.
. "No!" She screamed in silence, "Let me die!"
.
. Rrikkit hy Srys, when will Chi Srynik Davikk come? When will
you let me die? When will you burn the Drukkmai? When will I, Chi
Hikkeska Srys, bury you and take your place?
. "Never, little daemon, never."
. She stood in the sunlight and faced Srys.
. "Then burn me now," she spoke, "I tire of life, yet you could
not take it from me, even if you wished."
. She smiled wickedly at the morning light. The sun on her face increased, the light would have blinded her, but she was Srysmai. The radiation from the Sun would have burned her skin, but as the day had turned from the night, the White Makkkit, although hidden in Srys's light, was no longer empty.
. Keska uttered the words to turn her skin to stone. She mocked the would be god, "If you are a true God, then so am I."
. Keska awoke.
. She cursed herself for falling asleep, she had gone without it since the day she had faced the Drukkmai kkutta. Had she not been asleep at the time of the attack, she could have saved the boy. Thus, she no longer slept anymore, she spent the nights studying from her uncle's spell books, hoping to unlock the mysteries of Necromancy, which had eluded her completely, as well as practicing her magics she already understood.
. Her magic, not Srys's, she was not a cleric, her power, however weak, was her own. Yet still she was trapped in Srys's will.
. She stared at the morning Sun.
. "Release me." She spoke to the light.
. "You are not mine to release, Keska."
. "The why do I continue to work your will?" She pondered.
. "Because you want to."
. "Then I am yours, I do not wish to work your will."
. "Then stop." a dare?
. "I cannot, our wills are the same."
. "Protect my people then."
. "I refused, and you let them die, they were not worthy of you."
. "Protect Rhea's people then, in your tribe's place."
. "Mkkkt-hikkkut's people are not Srysmai either."
. "You refuse my will, Sha'falas? Then they will die too."
. Keska's voice hardened in fury, " I am not Sikkevikk or
Shalonesti, I am Chi Hikkeska hy Srys, The High daemon of Sun; pure,
Srysmai, as the sunlight. I will no longer pretend to protect
Mkkkt-kif's people, I will work my own will. I will destroy you,
false-god of the Sun."
. "Your powers begin and end with the light, they begin and end
with me."
. Keska turned from the sun, and walked through the gardens, coming to a stop to rest under the shade of a tree.
. "The powers you bestow on me, yes, but my magic is mine." She mused to herself.
. Her only kif, Rhea, would not be pleased with her renouncing house, she was in fact the eldest member of it, and would be accused of "being difficult, again".
. Keska meditated for a while, then noticed the Kkut of the Mystics Llyowyn, walk by. The Mystics. She would join them. She would study and polish her powers not tied to Srys. She would read the fabled "Spellbook" and perhaps begin to unlock some of the greater mysteries of her magic. She would destroy Srys.
. No pity, no regret, no joy, no love, Keska Srys turned from her laikkt in Sha'falas, and pondered the path of magic.
[402] Keska: A Necromancer's madding legacy
Wed Dec 17 22:45:45 1997
To: all
. "Pythia tells me you have been being mean to everyone." Spoke Rhea.
. *only to deserving fools, sikkevikk, drukkmai, and other assorted loose cannons. if that constitutes "everyone" in the clan, then perhaps I should be the last of hikkkutta Pythia's concerns*
. If the Keska Srys was forced to talk about her "feelings" one more time, she would crack and kill something, or cry. She preferred the former, shows of weakness were not becoming for an elder bladesinger, and the later would only draw more attention to her unhappiness, and thus more talk about her "feelings" would result, furthering her annoyance. Instead she did neither, but stood nearly expressionless, save for the occasional wince of pain her "feelings" would evoke, and a cruel retort to whoever recently displeased her. Sooner or later, the annoying attempts of her clan mates to "repair" her "damaged" outlook on life would end in another stalemate, and she would dismiss herself into the comfortable folds of her dark cloak. . She would neither kill something, nor would she cry in frustration, but instead she would return to the Tower of the Stars, and lock herself into practice room 1, and continue her studies of magic.
. Magic, hardship, and age are known for making people a tad eccentric. Keska had experienced well over a century of all three. Age is what saved her today. Her superiors could no sooner properly discipline the eccentric insulting, and sometimes cruel old swordswoman, who had in her younger years been an active protector, rebuilder, and warrior in the clan, then they could kick their own grandmother in the shins and steal her yarn and knitting needles. While Keska neither knitted, or was plump, smiling, or "grandmotherly"; it is one of the stranger virtues of the youth that they might respect their elder, even if that elder showed little respect in return.
. If age saved Keska from the meddling talk of "feelings" with her clan mates, and hardship trained and saved her from death in battle, then magic is what could save her from herself. Since moving to house Sha'enlas, she had emerged herself in the studies of the ancient art. She studied all that was available to her; from the notes of the greater mages of her house, to the "Spellbook" itself, taken all those years ago by Spellath the Dark. All these studies, however, had only left her hungry for more, and the calling of her uncle's old spellbook now filled her ears with comforting promises, and her mind with curiosity and desire for power.
. ...And so Keska sat in practice room 1, magically sealing the door behind her; she contemplated opening the black bound spellbook that had once belonged to Tryzeler Sakam, renegade necromancer of the black robes, evil incarnate, drukkmai, and teacher to his beloved niece, the Keska Srys.
. Magic is as much art, as it is science or skill. No two mages can interpret or remember a spell exactly the same way. It is impossible, they are two entirely different people, with different vocal infections, manners of speaking, and minds with differing outlooks and emotions. Thus, for Keska to remove the charms that her uncle used to bind his spellbook She would have to either mimic her uncle's voice and actions to the most exact degree, or find a way to conjure the same effects and feelings her uncle would have used to gain access to the book. Her own personal interpretation. Mimicking her uncle was, of course, an impossibility, so instead she sat and meditated on what she remembered opening the spellbook was like when her uncle would, so many years ago. She would find a way to say the words so that she stuck herself in that very same mood.
. *words even have slightly different meanings to everyone, perhaps it is note enough that I say the words, but say words that mean to me what his words meant to him*
. It was as reasonable as anything, and worth an attempt. So far she had been shocked, burnt, teleported, and briefly turned to stone buy the book, what worse could happen to one who had for so long wished to welcome death?
. So Keska stood, not as her uncle did, but as she would; and she waved her hand, not as her uncle would, but as she would; and spoke words, not the words her uncle spoke, but the ones she would speak; and she prayed, not to her uncle's gods, but to the ones she was sworn to.
. "Chi Srynik Davikk, zikkt lunti mki"
. The book fell open. Keska stared at the old runes in horror. The words rippled in a dozen different languages at once, none of which she had ever seen before. Slowly the ripples turned to blurs and the room around her fell away in to darkness. Keska heard daemons chewing on her flesh; heat from hell itself burned her eyes. On her right shoulder sat a miniature brass dragon, who babbled madly in the words of magic, on her other shoulder sat a black, slowly melting her face with its acid breath.
. Summoning her infamously stubborn will, Keska managed to wretch her eyes from the runes in the book, and to slam the black cover shut. She rested a bit letting most things fall back to normal. Except the brass dragon's strange incarnations still danced in her head, befuddling the spells she knew. Her left ear bled where the breath of the black had damaged it. She could not hear from that ear any longer it seemed. She stood unsteadily, and the world swung with madness.
. *either I did something very wrong, or that experience could explain a good many things about my uncle, and necromancers in general*
. Willing the world to stop blurring and spinning, which it didn’t, Keska could assume only one thing. She had gone mad, and was therefore not fit to report for active duty. Walking carefully down the tower, gripping the wall next to her, she proceeded through the gardens, carefully avoiding dancing flowers. She came to the parchment posted on the wall of the hall of the moons, that listed the names of the bladesingers and warriors currently on duty. Her fingers numb and immobile, she could not grip or lift the pen to cross her name off the list. She stood, staring at the swirling letters for an instant, then she spoke the words of magic, and the letters that spelt her name glowed blue, and burnt themselves from the page.
. She turned and walked more steadily out into the garden where her horse grazed. Now muttering along with the voice of the mad brass in her head, either the world had slowed it's spinning, or she was getting used to the madness. In either case, when she approached and mounted her black stallion she took the precaution of tying herself on to his back. She had been an excellent horsewoman, using neither bridle or saddle to ride her well trained mount, but now she felt quite faint, and the rope seemed reasonable.
. With a word and a kick, she sent the beast galloping into the forest. Away from the daemons chewing on her flesh, away from the heat of hell in her eyes, away from the brass dragons speaking in strange tongues, away black dragons' acid melting her ears... away from a swirling world that she had lost the ability to make sense of, far from sikkevikk, drukkmai, srysmai. Into the woods, into the quiet, away from talking about "feelings" ... for the woods never asks, it only reveals.
[383] Keska: Drukk-zthi-Srys, Srys-zthi-Drukk: old answers reveal new questions.
Tue Dec 23 02:31:01 1997
To: all
. The rhythm of hoof beats flying through the forest; the dangerous breakneck speed the regular rhythms created turned the world to a blurred tunnel of green, pulling the Keska Srys, and her horse, Drukkmakki, deeper and deeper into it. Faster and faster, away into the woods, the sounds of daemons chewing on her flesh, the chants of the miniature brass dragon, the acid breath of the tiny black, they were left far behind. The world swirled from black to green, her flight in to the woods continued at a blinding, teary-blurred speed, and as the green world swirled around her, she realized she really wasn't actually going anywhere.
. Keska rubbed her aching head in confusion; untied herself from the back of her horse, and fell in an undignified heap into the underbrush. The fall hadn’t hurt as much as she would have hoped, but it still helped righten her dizzy mind, and pull her back to reality. She stood slowly, still rubbing her head; the world slowed it's spinning.
. Glaring at her stallion in annoyance, Keska wondered how long ago he had stopped his run. Sweat and mud had already dried on his hide, apparently it had not taken him long to figure out that running from the figments and delusions of another's madness was completely unnecessary. She let the stubborn animal continue to forage.
. Her head ached, figments and delusions it might have been, but they had managed to mark the bladesinger with a stunning bit of reality. She was still deaf in the ear that the black dragon in her visions had breathed on.
. *I am growing old, and my skills are slowly weakening, the last thing I need is this handicap*
. She considered her location. It appeared her mad ride had led her to the northwest, towards where the ruins of her home city would lie. Still a ways to go, she quickly decided not to continue there. There was truly nothing left of the city to Srys, the remains were buried in the ground, and in the nightmare memories of it's sole survivor.
. No, the Keska Srys would not look into the past, only the future now.
. *I had always counted on being dead by now*
. *Srys, mkkkt-kkut; Kantillies, mkkkt-sakki; Rhea, mkkkt-kif; why did you not allow me to die when my purpose ended*
She cleared the ground and built a skeleton of wood that would provide food for the flames of a campfire. With a word she summoned a small ball of blue flame; and held it, letting it feast on her life, while looking into it for an answer.
. "Why, light, do I still live? What shall I do with this life you continue to feed me?" She tossed the flame into the pit of firewood, and it quickly caught up it's new food, turning to brilliant yellows and oranges; Keska leaned close to the flames, looking for an answer.
. A cloudy moonless night turned to a cloudy sunless day. Neither Srys or Makkkit offered their wisdom, and as for kif? Friends were few and far between for the disagreeable, elder, wild elf. It was unlikely that anyone back at the hall missed her yet. More likely many probably enjoyed the vacation from her glum moods. No, there were no answers to her questions from either god, or mortal; she would have to provide her own.
*answers? I barely know my questions.. none can answer me till I know my question*
Keska sat staring at the smoldering remains of her fire.
*This time I go, not in search of answers, but for the questions*
*the sorts of questions sikkevikk do not concern themselves with,
the sorts of questions that could be answered in the madness of my
uncle's runes and spells*
She spoke to the woods at large, "I will go, and learn the things 'scholars' and mages who have had better opportunities than I had ever had in my youth, do. I will study those curiosities until I find the questions I seek. Then I will understand the answers in my uncle's spell book."
Keska stood and stomped out the last of the fire. She whistled to the stallion Drukkmakki, who was dozing nearby. He approached her with a questioning look on his face, perhaps wondering if he would have to carry his mistress past figments of her imagination again.
"Good," she spoke to him as she steadily leapt onto his back, letting the safety rope lie forgotten. The world still turned at an odd angle, but now it was skewed in tune with Keska's mind, "Good, mkkkt-kif, you will need your questioning looks, we have answered our questions, and questioned our answers, now we seek a new set to analyze. Perhaps in the end we will have interesting things to enlighten our laikktk with."
Drukkmakki mearly snorted and rolled his eyes as he was urged into a steady trot to the south.
"I hear that the horses of New Thalos are not so stubborn as you. Perhaps I should investigate there first."
In the gray greens the black horse and dark cloaked rider loped off looking for shadows in light, and light in shadow, where there is only gray.
[186] Keska: mai lit-k'ni aiti shazi: to destroy a history
Fri Jan 2 23:52:13 1998
To: all
. The Keska Srys rubbed weary eyes in the comforting musty darkness of the catacombs. The smells, the sounds, even the taste of death drifted here, lulling and inviting the bladesinger to join them in an eternal sleep.
. *a pitiful and cruel tease the gods of death have been to me*
The musty air and days and nights without sleep did sing a tempting lullaby, but sleep is only a false death, one Keska would not take time for. Like a "night owl" reaching for his much needed morning coffee, an addict his drug; Keska uttered the words of magic, and a false energy flowed through her veins, destroying and refreshing.
. It had been well over two weeks since Keska had exited the emence green woods of Shalonesti in search for her questions. She had not seen or heard from her clan in that time. It was doubtful they would look for her, and even less likely that they would find her if they did. Even on horseback she could move through the woods without a trace, and any vague traces would now have eroded into the forest. Even if she had stayed in the woods, none would find here, and certainly none would think to search for her here, in the depths and pits of a gloomy monument to death.
. The location of the valley of the dragons was no secret to her she had been dragged there many times before on absurd quests by her clan. However, it was not dragons, portals, or the beastly Yinn she was searching for. While the resurgence of the great wyrms was interesting the deaths and extinction of other beasts now fascinated her with the strange secrets they promised.
. *What are they? Why did they die, and how? and why have there been no recordings of this race that I have seen? Is it possible for an entire people to be so obliterated from history?*
. Vaguely humanoid beings with extra appendages, possibly wings, danced around her mind. Their terrified postures and faces struck pity even in Keska's cold heart.
. *what killed you beasts? did you deserve such terrible deaths?*
. The puzzling remains did not answer her; however, perhaps something else could. Surely all records of these creatures and what destroyed them could not be lost.
. Keska stood, closing her notebook, filled with writings and drawings of the things she had seen in this journey. Dusting off her dark cloak, she climbed up the endless stairs from the depths of the catacombs to the chambers of the Temple of the Darcon. Outside in the maddening, swirling, damp, gray mists, the black stallion, Drukkmakki, stood; ears back in a posture that suggested he would rather be lunchmeat for a roage griffin, than here.
. "Relax mkkkt-kif, we go now to raid libraies of their knowledge." Keska spoke in soothing tones to the giant black horse, who's nerves had been frazzled since he had first smelled the mists. "Surely some record of these deceased creatures of Shinalstin must exist somewhere."
. Riding out of the maddening mists of the dragon valley, the dark hooded bladesinger returned to the woods, to travel through the many rolling hills and valleys to the north east to arrive, in a few days time, at the gates of the pathetic barbaric human settlement of Pan-Toll.
. She rode through the decaying streets, receiving strange stares form the inhabitants. Keska had never thought herself as rich or extravagant; however, her black hood and leathers, and bright silver armor and bells no doubt made her look like some legendary warlord compared to the tattered and raggedy armors and cloths of the Pan-Toll people. A truly odd city to find a libary.
. Dismounting and tying Drukkmakki outside; hopefully none of the starving inhabitants liked horse meat, she paid the Liberian his absurd fee to view his few pitiful, ragged history texts.
. One, a history text by Ta'plak the heretic, which suggested that Austinian was not entirely good and Necrucifer was not truly evil, provided nothing on the subject she searched for. She remembered the stir the content of this story had caused when it was made available to the general public. However, to the Keska Srys it mearly confirmed her most primitive tribal beliefs that the gods of now were weak and impure compared to the High God, the true creator, who left his essence behind in the sun, Srys. The world Srys had created was perfect as was he, yet those he charged with its keeping were not. Why worship an imperfect god?
. Theology disinterested Keska, Srysmai, and sworn to the white moon, one could spend a mai life time trying to understand gods; it simply was not for mai to understand.
. Keska turned to the other history text by some Jahonatin Tahn, on the history of his life and people. A poor writer the man's subject and style had never interested her before, but now the first few lines of his text stared at her, glowing with horror.
. "We were so happy. Oh so happy! We had thrown out the cultists..."
. *the cult, what cult?!*
. Desperately Keska sank back into her mind reaching for dusty ancient memories older than a few centuries. A time when she had been young and commanded the army of the tribe Srys.
. *the Cult of Srys, no... we never stretched this far east, we rarely touched human civilizations*
. The text went on to speak of the witches and maniacs of the cult. This was not the Srys, magic and witch craft was forbidden. Only the kutta, who obtained their power from the Sun, ever did anything 'mystical'. Excepting Keska and her Uncle Tryzeler at any rate.
. *it was not the Srys, but what cult was it?*
. *Is it possible for an entire people to be so obliterated from
history? Did these people deserve this terrible eradication?*
. She swallowed, as a wave of sickness passed through her, she she had asked and answered these questions before. Yes, it could happen, and perhaps it was deserving. Lessons of the tribe Srys spoke of this. Erased from history, Keska rarely pitied the loss, she had overseen the corruption and destruction of the Cult of Srys herself.
. No longer worthy of the Sun, the ut-aikf, the impure; the drukkmai, the ones corrupted by darkness, easily wiped themselves from the light and the history scrolls. Leaving the only traces behind in the nightmarish memories of the demon they named and created as their destroyer. A monster who's only wish was to die, thus sending all that remained of the tribe's history back into the dark and corrupted earth, from which it had sprung.
. Keska held her head in her hands, shame cutting through her stomach, making her taste bile, as the memories of the history of the Srys flowed through her. Speaking so loudly that she could hear them even through her deaf ear.