Myriadviper42
Fulcrum Agent
- Joined
- Feb 14, 2010
- Location
- Control
A couple things before I begin. First off, I have decided that Reinhart, Gobli's character, will be the main character. And then to explain how this will work...A lot of the story will be in first person present tense from the POV of Reinhart. However, when the story goes to another event happening elsewhere, it will be in third person past tense. Yeah, yeah, I know, weird....Enjoy.
Prologue:
Reality is what keeps us anchored to ourselves. It binds us, makes us sure of what we are and who we are, our place in life. Someone who is unsure of their reality could be unstable. Which is interesting, actually. Because the entirety of what we consider to be “reality” isn’t. So are we all unstable? No. We perceive that what we see is indeed real-and it is, but not in the way that we think that it is. Namely, reality is a dream.
A dream of a god, known as the Overseer, to be accurate. Everything that makes up our universe is merely a figment of a dream, thinking that we are capable of free will, when really our fates are predetermined by the whim of the Overseer. Nothing is real, but at the same time, all of it is. As the Overseer sleeps, life in our world goes on, as it has for millions of years, and the Overseer shows no sign of stirring, waking up. But there are those that would like to see that happen.
For if he were to wake, the dream would be gone. Like when we wake up, when we struggle to remember the dream we had the previous night. And it would be gone. We would be gone, until the Overseer would return to sleep. But it would not be the same world with the same people. Our civilization, our people would cease to exist. As of now, peace is breaking inside the dream. King Aeriam III has grown to be an unpopular leader as the result of a radical group which is gaining momentum every day, led by the enigma Rauil, who happens to be capable of his own free will...
There are indeed those, such as Rauil, who are capable of choice, and of manipulating the dream itself-to some extent. They are known as the Awakened, and their abilities generally involve what most perceive as “sorcery.” Pyrokinesis, telekenesis, teleportation, and most significantly, Influence, or the ability to manipulate someone else inside the dream, are all examples of this power. Awakened are very rare, but some are often unaware of their abilities apart from the fact that they seem to be very charismatic (which is actually their Influence).
Threats are everywhere, and peace has been compromised on multiple levels. The kingdom is breaking as a result of the radicals. Suspicion and mistrust are everywhere. Nowhere is safe. And yet there are those who press on, and try to help-to slow the coming change. But, heh, unfortunately for them, those matters are in greater hands...
Act 1
Chapter 1: Cloak and Dagger
My dreams have been strange as of late. Quite bizarre. I can’t exactly describe them, because they are indescribable. They are random. Occasionally I see a distinct face, but it is quickly obscured. It only adds to my sense of unease stemming from the troubling events in the earthly world. King Aeriam III has recently made a decree that those who speak treason-namely, those who call themselves the Insurrectionists-should be put to death on sight. Anyone who speaks out, even, not just those directly involved, will be executed as well.
He wasn’t always like this. At one point, he was a popular king, having expanded Exeria’s territory significantly as the result of two wars, and put to an end of the tradition of death without trial. Of course, then came the Insurrection, led by that rebel Rauil. I don’t know where he sprang from, but he is quite persuasive, which is interesting, given that I know more about the matter then most of the people who blindly obey his objections and judgment. In my view, the more the Insurrection grows and discredits him, the closer he is to becoming the picture they paint of him.
Reinhart is my name. I’m a mercenary, and have actually been hired by the king personally to take out a high-ranking Insurrectionist-which I succeeded at, of course. I consider myself to be pretty normal-y’know, I’ve been wanting to settle down from the mercenary life for a while now, but not with such war looming. After all, with civil war almost definitely on the horizon, the business will be bigger than ever, right? Even so, I’ve been eager for the end of this needless conflict. Too much innocent death.
I sit up in the inn bed, finished contemplating the world outside. The room is nice enough, but certainly not my preference, I think as I stretch my arms. The bed is a bit stiff, I have a bit of a cramp, but I can’t afford to be picky. Judging from the position of the sun, I’ve slept in ‘til about noon. Per usual. I head downstairs, winking at a girl passing by, and get a drink from the bartender. I am the only one in the room apart from the bartender. I decide to strike up a conversation.
“So how’s business doing lately?”
“Not as well as I’d might like. What, with all of this superstition going around about sorcerers, and the business with the king...” I nod. Sorcerers my foot. Most likely a whole bunch of crackpot fools running around inspiring fear into the population.
“These are dark times, and I almost envy those who have turned to religion. At least they have some solace. I try humor as my solace, but I suppose that humor isn’t really a god.”
The bartender raises an eyebrow. “Where do you stand on the idea of the Overseer?”
“I’m incredulous, there’s no real proof.”
I finish my drink, and pay in full. I get up and stretch. This small, sleepy town of Reden Ford might be just what I need...a quiet distraction. I smile. The girls are cute, at any rate. Might be a nice place to settle down after this whole Rauil business is over...I hear voices from outside, shouting. I can’t tell whether it’s condemnation or exaltation. I stride outside to see armored people with an insignia of a six-fingered hand on their breastplates. The unspoken symbol of the Insurrection. The crowd is being cleared, and at the front of the Insurrectionists is a man in a hooded gray cloak, with the hand on the back of it. He makes his way to a makeshift podium, and throws back his hood.
He has a thin, pointed face, and long black hair that rests on his lower neck. His eyes are a cold shade of gray, and his smile is a thin slit across his face. The gray cloak identifies him as a member of Rauil’s inner council, and it shows-somehow, the mere image of him standing on the makeshift podium projects an image of authority and charisma. He clears his throat and waits for the crowd to quiet down. I try to examine him, try to pin down what kind of person he is, but I can only figure that he is quite aloof. He begins to speak.
“Good afternoon to you all. My name is Castor, and I ask only that you hear me out. You already know who we are, and I assure you, we have no intention of threatening or intimidating you into joining our cause. We wish only for you to listen to our side of the story, not the needless propaganda the king has so entitled you to.” That hits a mark. The king’s decrees-not necessarily propaganda like this Castor is making it out to be, always include something about the common people being entitled to equality, entitled to truth, etc. To say they are entitled by their king to believe propaganda is an interesting and effective display of wordplay.
“As you all know, several weeks ago, our Majesty King Aeriam the Third, descendant in a long line of great kings, decreed that all those who speak treason will be put to death.” He pauses, letting the audience realize that he is doing just that, and they begin to look around for the guards who have failed to show up to presumably execute him. He continues. “Is that your entitlement, your restriction for what you believe? Is that what this nation has fallen to?” Something is off about his speech. He sounds off, as if he had been told to deliver a speech about something he didn’t care about to a group of children, and was merely acting his apparent enthusiasm. I look around to see that most everyone is nodding and murmuring in assent, and I can only look at Castor. How is he doing this when it seems as though he doesn’t care?
“He has time after time denied us. Who started the Great War?” There is a growl of assent, and I am feeling queasy. Something is wrong. “Who led us into a state of decay where we are enemies of five nations, including our most powerful competitor, Miria?” A louder growl of assent. “Who has forbidden you from speaking your mind unless it is in line with his vision?” A yell erupts from the crow, and I compel myself to step forward. “You are the only one to forbid this crowd from speaking their mind!” I yell, and everyone stops.
It is quiet, and Castor looks at me strangely, I can’t pin down what emotion he’s conveying. “Do go on,” he says quietly mocking, “and tell us what you mean by that.” He motions for me to come closer to him, and I stride towards the podium, with varied looks at me. I stand across from Castor, and I am surprised to find that he is smiling, albeit like a snake more than anything. “Do go on, my friend. I’m sure we’d all like to hear your opinion.”
“You know what I think of your little speech, Castor? It’s strange, because to my ears it sounds as though you don’t honestly care, but even so you still have managed to turn an entire crowd to you nonetheless. Plus, you are warping the truth to suit your own ends, and I’m afraid that this crowd is not entitled to that.” For once there is a murmur of confusion, of dissent, and Castor’s mask slips momentarily. “You know what, Castor? You and the rest of your ‘Insurrectionists’ are just snakes.” He purses his lips in a frown, but his eyes are alight and gleeful, and he laughs.
Something hits me in the face and knocks me to the ground. Several men stand around me, and I quickly get up and unsheathe my sword, lunging for one man’s throat, but I am quickly parried. I slash wildly at another only to be kicked in the face. They punch kick, slash, and I’m gasping, panting, wildly trying to defend myself, and miserably failing. I can hear the frightened reaction of the audience, and I slash one man in the arm, causing him to scream in pain as blood drips, and people begin screaming. Castor steps back several paces, albeit lazily, still giving me the impression that he doesn’t really care either way.
A man hits me in the face with the hilt of his sword, then another kicks me in the stomach, and I fall over on the ground, where they continue punching and kicking me until I’m a quivering mess on the ground. I open my mouth and blood bubbles, and I lie there, groaning. I hear commotion, and the approach of the village guards (which probably could have been another point for Castor-they didn’t even realize anything was going on). Screams pierce the air, and I hear the guards call out and attack the Insurrectionists. Castor unsheathes his sword and I hear the clang of metal on metal.
The people are in full panic now, and are running away from the scene, and the guards are falling one by one. I need to do something, but what can I do? I try to stand up, my legs wobbling. In all of the confusion I am unnoticed, and now I see firsthand the meaningless horror that has come through the Insurrection. Rage fills me, and I feel something building inside me, and I scream. Fire bursts in every direction from me, scorching Insurrectionists, but not the guards or innocnets. What the hell? My mind is swimming, and I sink to the ground, panting and coughing up blood, and I black out as I see a shadowy figure approaching me.
Prologue:
Reality is what keeps us anchored to ourselves. It binds us, makes us sure of what we are and who we are, our place in life. Someone who is unsure of their reality could be unstable. Which is interesting, actually. Because the entirety of what we consider to be “reality” isn’t. So are we all unstable? No. We perceive that what we see is indeed real-and it is, but not in the way that we think that it is. Namely, reality is a dream.
A dream of a god, known as the Overseer, to be accurate. Everything that makes up our universe is merely a figment of a dream, thinking that we are capable of free will, when really our fates are predetermined by the whim of the Overseer. Nothing is real, but at the same time, all of it is. As the Overseer sleeps, life in our world goes on, as it has for millions of years, and the Overseer shows no sign of stirring, waking up. But there are those that would like to see that happen.
For if he were to wake, the dream would be gone. Like when we wake up, when we struggle to remember the dream we had the previous night. And it would be gone. We would be gone, until the Overseer would return to sleep. But it would not be the same world with the same people. Our civilization, our people would cease to exist. As of now, peace is breaking inside the dream. King Aeriam III has grown to be an unpopular leader as the result of a radical group which is gaining momentum every day, led by the enigma Rauil, who happens to be capable of his own free will...
There are indeed those, such as Rauil, who are capable of choice, and of manipulating the dream itself-to some extent. They are known as the Awakened, and their abilities generally involve what most perceive as “sorcery.” Pyrokinesis, telekenesis, teleportation, and most significantly, Influence, or the ability to manipulate someone else inside the dream, are all examples of this power. Awakened are very rare, but some are often unaware of their abilities apart from the fact that they seem to be very charismatic (which is actually their Influence).
Threats are everywhere, and peace has been compromised on multiple levels. The kingdom is breaking as a result of the radicals. Suspicion and mistrust are everywhere. Nowhere is safe. And yet there are those who press on, and try to help-to slow the coming change. But, heh, unfortunately for them, those matters are in greater hands...
Act 1
Chapter 1: Cloak and Dagger
My dreams have been strange as of late. Quite bizarre. I can’t exactly describe them, because they are indescribable. They are random. Occasionally I see a distinct face, but it is quickly obscured. It only adds to my sense of unease stemming from the troubling events in the earthly world. King Aeriam III has recently made a decree that those who speak treason-namely, those who call themselves the Insurrectionists-should be put to death on sight. Anyone who speaks out, even, not just those directly involved, will be executed as well.
He wasn’t always like this. At one point, he was a popular king, having expanded Exeria’s territory significantly as the result of two wars, and put to an end of the tradition of death without trial. Of course, then came the Insurrection, led by that rebel Rauil. I don’t know where he sprang from, but he is quite persuasive, which is interesting, given that I know more about the matter then most of the people who blindly obey his objections and judgment. In my view, the more the Insurrection grows and discredits him, the closer he is to becoming the picture they paint of him.
Reinhart is my name. I’m a mercenary, and have actually been hired by the king personally to take out a high-ranking Insurrectionist-which I succeeded at, of course. I consider myself to be pretty normal-y’know, I’ve been wanting to settle down from the mercenary life for a while now, but not with such war looming. After all, with civil war almost definitely on the horizon, the business will be bigger than ever, right? Even so, I’ve been eager for the end of this needless conflict. Too much innocent death.
I sit up in the inn bed, finished contemplating the world outside. The room is nice enough, but certainly not my preference, I think as I stretch my arms. The bed is a bit stiff, I have a bit of a cramp, but I can’t afford to be picky. Judging from the position of the sun, I’ve slept in ‘til about noon. Per usual. I head downstairs, winking at a girl passing by, and get a drink from the bartender. I am the only one in the room apart from the bartender. I decide to strike up a conversation.
“So how’s business doing lately?”
“Not as well as I’d might like. What, with all of this superstition going around about sorcerers, and the business with the king...” I nod. Sorcerers my foot. Most likely a whole bunch of crackpot fools running around inspiring fear into the population.
“These are dark times, and I almost envy those who have turned to religion. At least they have some solace. I try humor as my solace, but I suppose that humor isn’t really a god.”
The bartender raises an eyebrow. “Where do you stand on the idea of the Overseer?”
“I’m incredulous, there’s no real proof.”
I finish my drink, and pay in full. I get up and stretch. This small, sleepy town of Reden Ford might be just what I need...a quiet distraction. I smile. The girls are cute, at any rate. Might be a nice place to settle down after this whole Rauil business is over...I hear voices from outside, shouting. I can’t tell whether it’s condemnation or exaltation. I stride outside to see armored people with an insignia of a six-fingered hand on their breastplates. The unspoken symbol of the Insurrection. The crowd is being cleared, and at the front of the Insurrectionists is a man in a hooded gray cloak, with the hand on the back of it. He makes his way to a makeshift podium, and throws back his hood.
He has a thin, pointed face, and long black hair that rests on his lower neck. His eyes are a cold shade of gray, and his smile is a thin slit across his face. The gray cloak identifies him as a member of Rauil’s inner council, and it shows-somehow, the mere image of him standing on the makeshift podium projects an image of authority and charisma. He clears his throat and waits for the crowd to quiet down. I try to examine him, try to pin down what kind of person he is, but I can only figure that he is quite aloof. He begins to speak.
“Good afternoon to you all. My name is Castor, and I ask only that you hear me out. You already know who we are, and I assure you, we have no intention of threatening or intimidating you into joining our cause. We wish only for you to listen to our side of the story, not the needless propaganda the king has so entitled you to.” That hits a mark. The king’s decrees-not necessarily propaganda like this Castor is making it out to be, always include something about the common people being entitled to equality, entitled to truth, etc. To say they are entitled by their king to believe propaganda is an interesting and effective display of wordplay.
“As you all know, several weeks ago, our Majesty King Aeriam the Third, descendant in a long line of great kings, decreed that all those who speak treason will be put to death.” He pauses, letting the audience realize that he is doing just that, and they begin to look around for the guards who have failed to show up to presumably execute him. He continues. “Is that your entitlement, your restriction for what you believe? Is that what this nation has fallen to?” Something is off about his speech. He sounds off, as if he had been told to deliver a speech about something he didn’t care about to a group of children, and was merely acting his apparent enthusiasm. I look around to see that most everyone is nodding and murmuring in assent, and I can only look at Castor. How is he doing this when it seems as though he doesn’t care?
“He has time after time denied us. Who started the Great War?” There is a growl of assent, and I am feeling queasy. Something is wrong. “Who led us into a state of decay where we are enemies of five nations, including our most powerful competitor, Miria?” A louder growl of assent. “Who has forbidden you from speaking your mind unless it is in line with his vision?” A yell erupts from the crow, and I compel myself to step forward. “You are the only one to forbid this crowd from speaking their mind!” I yell, and everyone stops.
It is quiet, and Castor looks at me strangely, I can’t pin down what emotion he’s conveying. “Do go on,” he says quietly mocking, “and tell us what you mean by that.” He motions for me to come closer to him, and I stride towards the podium, with varied looks at me. I stand across from Castor, and I am surprised to find that he is smiling, albeit like a snake more than anything. “Do go on, my friend. I’m sure we’d all like to hear your opinion.”
“You know what I think of your little speech, Castor? It’s strange, because to my ears it sounds as though you don’t honestly care, but even so you still have managed to turn an entire crowd to you nonetheless. Plus, you are warping the truth to suit your own ends, and I’m afraid that this crowd is not entitled to that.” For once there is a murmur of confusion, of dissent, and Castor’s mask slips momentarily. “You know what, Castor? You and the rest of your ‘Insurrectionists’ are just snakes.” He purses his lips in a frown, but his eyes are alight and gleeful, and he laughs.
Something hits me in the face and knocks me to the ground. Several men stand around me, and I quickly get up and unsheathe my sword, lunging for one man’s throat, but I am quickly parried. I slash wildly at another only to be kicked in the face. They punch kick, slash, and I’m gasping, panting, wildly trying to defend myself, and miserably failing. I can hear the frightened reaction of the audience, and I slash one man in the arm, causing him to scream in pain as blood drips, and people begin screaming. Castor steps back several paces, albeit lazily, still giving me the impression that he doesn’t really care either way.
A man hits me in the face with the hilt of his sword, then another kicks me in the stomach, and I fall over on the ground, where they continue punching and kicking me until I’m a quivering mess on the ground. I open my mouth and blood bubbles, and I lie there, groaning. I hear commotion, and the approach of the village guards (which probably could have been another point for Castor-they didn’t even realize anything was going on). Screams pierce the air, and I hear the guards call out and attack the Insurrectionists. Castor unsheathes his sword and I hear the clang of metal on metal.
The people are in full panic now, and are running away from the scene, and the guards are falling one by one. I need to do something, but what can I do? I try to stand up, my legs wobbling. In all of the confusion I am unnoticed, and now I see firsthand the meaningless horror that has come through the Insurrection. Rage fills me, and I feel something building inside me, and I scream. Fire bursts in every direction from me, scorching Insurrectionists, but not the guards or innocnets. What the hell? My mind is swimming, and I sink to the ground, panting and coughing up blood, and I black out as I see a shadowy figure approaching me.
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