Luiglin
Getting worse one day at a time
I've been thinking of putting the Dark Lord into more of an organised format for some time. He fits well in 75s but not sure if I can stretch it out. Looking at more tone and style than grammatical at this point but any thoughts, good, bad or ugly are always welcome. Sorry if it's a touch long...
____________________________________________________
Here’s the world.
Stretching away and filled with all the usual features. Mountains range, oceans roll, plains sweep, forests sway and rivers chuckle… they do, take a listen next time.
For here’s the world as seen anew.
Drawn out flat using creations crayons wielded by the capricious children of Gods, Godlings if you will.
Not a perfect start in life for any self respecting world. No eon stretching thought or deliberation on geography here. No infinite musing or epoch length discussions on life. Nope, straight into wriggling coastlines, smudged mountains and curly forests for this world. The Godlings are many and they like to have fun.
After a short nap the work resumes. Life appears in various shapes and sizes. Stick drawings copied from elsewhere and coaxed into something more. An afternoon of Godling play, an age of life and with a final flourish magic abounds.
Here is the world and for now here it stays.
~
Times passes. That’s it’s nature. It can’t really do anything else.
~
Fly past over the nothing that surrounds. That blank part of the canvas as yet untouched apart from the occasional lake sized juice stain and mountain shaped crumb. Here oceans just start and forests just end. Journey on deeper into the canvas, across the Plains of Khaduhi, round the coast of the Yosad Ocean where it kisses the tip of the Mountains of Smak. Finally, cradled upon a peak, there sits a castle.
Forlorn it looks and Forlorn is its name.
Those surrounding lands consider it a carbuncle on the world. The castle’s owner? A beauty spot, to a certain extent, although his definition of beauty is not necessarily the same as everyone else. The castle is somewhat unique in design for the original has been lost beneath a gamut of extensions, towers and buttresses of various styles and fashions from ages gone past. Certainly no town planner has ever set foot past its gates.
At this moment, deep within the castle’s bowels the owner stirs. Quite a feat really considering he’s meant to have been dead some two hundred years.
~
Flip back.
Within the celestial kindergarten, Hidra, self-named God of Darkness, sucks a thumb and considers carefully his next move. Beyond him, Jakak, God of Bangs, is contentedly rubbing knuckles back and forth across poor Reccle’s, God of Writing, curly blond head. Other Godlings chatter, giggle, and in the case of poor Jubbo, God of Rivers, dribble as the game continues.
Hidra casts a quick glance at his playground nemesis. Elsarna, She Who of Knows Everything, looks smug within her gaggle of friends. He frowns as she catches his eye and sticks her tongue out as only little girls know how. So far she’s beaten him every time. The rules of the playground are both eternal and fickle. He needs allies or at a catch at least enemies who hate Elsarna more.
This will take some thought... and maybe a nap or two.
The game continues. At some point the Gods may start to wonder why their children are being quieter than normal and, as every parent knows, that is never a good sign.
~
Flip back again.
Remember deep within the bowels of Forlorn? Here we go once more, this time in person.
“Well this feels better,” he mused, stretching arms where muscles fought other muscles for his attention. “I must say it’s a definite improvement on my last incarnation.”
A hand, the only visible part of the Minion, appeared from beneath voluminous robes and made a short series of jerks.
“I know the rotting look was trendy at the time,” he snapped, “but I was fed up with having to be continually stitched back together.”
The hand, made an agreeing motion and disappeared, the mound of robes shuffling around the altar with a soft swoosh of velvet under motion.
“Damn, the floor is still as cold though,” he said, hopping from foot to foot.
“Verily it is scribed that the Soul Sanctum be as cold as the grave my Lord.”
The voice was monotonous, timeless and dusty; he knew exactly who it was.
“Ah Greblest. Still with us then?” He turned to see the Keeper of the Tome, a walking wrinkle of dried pale flesh dressed in robes that even moths had given up trying to snack on. “How’s the night life?”
“Aha aha ha… most amusing my Dark Lord,” stated Greblest without a smidgen of humour and giving all a glimpse of two razor sharp vampire incisors stained a dirty pink. “It is time for the Ritual of Dread Cleansing.”
The Dark Lord sighed. “Must we? Can’t we turn over a new leaf and just leave it this time?”
“Hidra, wielder of night’s dark powers, grant this vessel...” intoned Greblest launching into the ritual and completely oblivious to the world around him.
“Or maybe not,” said the Dark Lord frowning.
The Minion leaned into view behind the vampire, shrugged a hand and flicked a few fingers.
“You tried? Well thanks for that.”
The hand rapped at the altar.
“Like banging your head on a brick wall eh? I don’t suppose he’s warmed up the...” There was the sound of a dull splat. “...no… he hasn’t.”
Hidden behind the droning vampire, a set of shoulders covered in voluminous robes rose up and down with silent chuckling.
The Dark Lord waved a muscular hand in front of Greblest. The vampire, deep into the ritual, continued to intone verses written an eon ago in a voice that would have bored even a gargoyle.
“Right, he’s away with the bats, grab my axe and let’s go. I need to put my feet up and have an ale.”
The Dark Lord strode purposely out of Soul Sanctum then came to abrupt halt. The Minion, vainly attempting to keep pace with jerky scampers, careered into his back.
“Did I just say axe?”
The Minion’s hand, red with embarrassment, nodded.
“Hmmm.”
The Dark Lord strode on a few steps and halted once more. The Minion awaiting this hadn’t moved an inch.
“Ale? Did I say ale?” he murmured, heroic features furrowed with thought for possible the first time in the life of the body.
Again the hand nodded.
“This body belonged to a barbarian hero didn’t it?” he asked, realising that he already knew the answer.
The Minion’s hand nodded a third time, knuckles now crimson and slightly shaking.
“That explains the urge I had to slice Greblest’s head from his shoulders then. Not such a bad idea anyway when you think about it.”
A raised finger tried to get attention but the Dark Lord strode on and the Minion scurried in his wake. They moved quickly through old empty halls and corridors, working their way ever upwards, finally coming to areas still inhabited.
Turning a corner resulted in an unexpected scream, followed by the crash of a bucket, the swash of water and the rattle of a wooden mop. There, at his feet, lay a goblin scullery maid, out like a light, spread-eagled in a pool of spreading soapy water. Behind him the Minion came to a skidding halt, hood billowing with the exertion.
“Is she alright do you think?” queried the Dark Lord giving her a poke in the ribs with the mop.
The goblin stirred with a groan, opened one blood shot eye, screamed once more and promptly feinted again.
“Not had that reaction before,” the Dark Lord exclaimed, glancing at the Minion for help.
A set of carefully folded robes appeared in the Minion’s hand and comprehension hit. The Dark Lord slowly looked down the muscled torso, over a flat hard stomach and finishing at the well-endowed groin just about hidden a loincloth that would have been considered a snug fit on a gnome.
Gnomes are in fact the fiercest of fishers in the world. Don’t be fooled by the everyday tales of grandfatherly white bearded sorts that sit of mushrooms with jolly smiles. Many a folk have had their quiet Sunday morning dozes by the river terminally ruined by a small horde of red capped, loincloth flapping, rod wielding maniacs. The very case that this is not generally well known just proves how vicious the little buggers are.
“Ah, thank you,” a red glow infusing his new perfect cheekbones.
____________________________________________________
Here’s the world.
Stretching away and filled with all the usual features. Mountains range, oceans roll, plains sweep, forests sway and rivers chuckle… they do, take a listen next time.
For here’s the world as seen anew.
Drawn out flat using creations crayons wielded by the capricious children of Gods, Godlings if you will.
Not a perfect start in life for any self respecting world. No eon stretching thought or deliberation on geography here. No infinite musing or epoch length discussions on life. Nope, straight into wriggling coastlines, smudged mountains and curly forests for this world. The Godlings are many and they like to have fun.
After a short nap the work resumes. Life appears in various shapes and sizes. Stick drawings copied from elsewhere and coaxed into something more. An afternoon of Godling play, an age of life and with a final flourish magic abounds.
Here is the world and for now here it stays.
~
Times passes. That’s it’s nature. It can’t really do anything else.
~
Fly past over the nothing that surrounds. That blank part of the canvas as yet untouched apart from the occasional lake sized juice stain and mountain shaped crumb. Here oceans just start and forests just end. Journey on deeper into the canvas, across the Plains of Khaduhi, round the coast of the Yosad Ocean where it kisses the tip of the Mountains of Smak. Finally, cradled upon a peak, there sits a castle.
Forlorn it looks and Forlorn is its name.
Those surrounding lands consider it a carbuncle on the world. The castle’s owner? A beauty spot, to a certain extent, although his definition of beauty is not necessarily the same as everyone else. The castle is somewhat unique in design for the original has been lost beneath a gamut of extensions, towers and buttresses of various styles and fashions from ages gone past. Certainly no town planner has ever set foot past its gates.
At this moment, deep within the castle’s bowels the owner stirs. Quite a feat really considering he’s meant to have been dead some two hundred years.
~
Flip back.
Within the celestial kindergarten, Hidra, self-named God of Darkness, sucks a thumb and considers carefully his next move. Beyond him, Jakak, God of Bangs, is contentedly rubbing knuckles back and forth across poor Reccle’s, God of Writing, curly blond head. Other Godlings chatter, giggle, and in the case of poor Jubbo, God of Rivers, dribble as the game continues.
Hidra casts a quick glance at his playground nemesis. Elsarna, She Who of Knows Everything, looks smug within her gaggle of friends. He frowns as she catches his eye and sticks her tongue out as only little girls know how. So far she’s beaten him every time. The rules of the playground are both eternal and fickle. He needs allies or at a catch at least enemies who hate Elsarna more.
This will take some thought... and maybe a nap or two.
The game continues. At some point the Gods may start to wonder why their children are being quieter than normal and, as every parent knows, that is never a good sign.
~
Flip back again.
Remember deep within the bowels of Forlorn? Here we go once more, this time in person.
“Well this feels better,” he mused, stretching arms where muscles fought other muscles for his attention. “I must say it’s a definite improvement on my last incarnation.”
A hand, the only visible part of the Minion, appeared from beneath voluminous robes and made a short series of jerks.
“I know the rotting look was trendy at the time,” he snapped, “but I was fed up with having to be continually stitched back together.”
The hand, made an agreeing motion and disappeared, the mound of robes shuffling around the altar with a soft swoosh of velvet under motion.
“Damn, the floor is still as cold though,” he said, hopping from foot to foot.
“Verily it is scribed that the Soul Sanctum be as cold as the grave my Lord.”
The voice was monotonous, timeless and dusty; he knew exactly who it was.
“Ah Greblest. Still with us then?” He turned to see the Keeper of the Tome, a walking wrinkle of dried pale flesh dressed in robes that even moths had given up trying to snack on. “How’s the night life?”
“Aha aha ha… most amusing my Dark Lord,” stated Greblest without a smidgen of humour and giving all a glimpse of two razor sharp vampire incisors stained a dirty pink. “It is time for the Ritual of Dread Cleansing.”
The Dark Lord sighed. “Must we? Can’t we turn over a new leaf and just leave it this time?”
“Hidra, wielder of night’s dark powers, grant this vessel...” intoned Greblest launching into the ritual and completely oblivious to the world around him.
“Or maybe not,” said the Dark Lord frowning.
The Minion leaned into view behind the vampire, shrugged a hand and flicked a few fingers.
“You tried? Well thanks for that.”
The hand rapped at the altar.
“Like banging your head on a brick wall eh? I don’t suppose he’s warmed up the...” There was the sound of a dull splat. “...no… he hasn’t.”
Hidden behind the droning vampire, a set of shoulders covered in voluminous robes rose up and down with silent chuckling.
The Dark Lord waved a muscular hand in front of Greblest. The vampire, deep into the ritual, continued to intone verses written an eon ago in a voice that would have bored even a gargoyle.
“Right, he’s away with the bats, grab my axe and let’s go. I need to put my feet up and have an ale.”
The Dark Lord strode purposely out of Soul Sanctum then came to abrupt halt. The Minion, vainly attempting to keep pace with jerky scampers, careered into his back.
“Did I just say axe?”
The Minion’s hand, red with embarrassment, nodded.
“Hmmm.”
The Dark Lord strode on a few steps and halted once more. The Minion awaiting this hadn’t moved an inch.
“Ale? Did I say ale?” he murmured, heroic features furrowed with thought for possible the first time in the life of the body.
Again the hand nodded.
“This body belonged to a barbarian hero didn’t it?” he asked, realising that he already knew the answer.
The Minion’s hand nodded a third time, knuckles now crimson and slightly shaking.
“That explains the urge I had to slice Greblest’s head from his shoulders then. Not such a bad idea anyway when you think about it.”
A raised finger tried to get attention but the Dark Lord strode on and the Minion scurried in his wake. They moved quickly through old empty halls and corridors, working their way ever upwards, finally coming to areas still inhabited.
Turning a corner resulted in an unexpected scream, followed by the crash of a bucket, the swash of water and the rattle of a wooden mop. There, at his feet, lay a goblin scullery maid, out like a light, spread-eagled in a pool of spreading soapy water. Behind him the Minion came to a skidding halt, hood billowing with the exertion.
“Is she alright do you think?” queried the Dark Lord giving her a poke in the ribs with the mop.
The goblin stirred with a groan, opened one blood shot eye, screamed once more and promptly feinted again.
“Not had that reaction before,” the Dark Lord exclaimed, glancing at the Minion for help.
A set of carefully folded robes appeared in the Minion’s hand and comprehension hit. The Dark Lord slowly looked down the muscled torso, over a flat hard stomach and finishing at the well-endowed groin just about hidden a loincloth that would have been considered a snug fit on a gnome.
Gnomes are in fact the fiercest of fishers in the world. Don’t be fooled by the everyday tales of grandfatherly white bearded sorts that sit of mushrooms with jolly smiles. Many a folk have had their quiet Sunday morning dozes by the river terminally ruined by a small horde of red capped, loincloth flapping, rod wielding maniacs. The very case that this is not generally well known just proves how vicious the little buggers are.
“Ah, thank you,” a red glow infusing his new perfect cheekbones.
