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8 texts found:
The Words of Ur-An-Uum, §39;
The Parable of Father Winter;
The Testimony of Little Sister Adara;
The Visions of Reader Enyah;
…
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Adam and Eve (1920), Franz von Stuck.
Words of Ur-An-Uum, §39
Fall down to the ground and listen. Hear, how the earth heralds armageddon.
Can you not hear it? The dukes and the Prophet certainly cannot. They are too high in their towers to listen. Too busy stacking gold and whispering secrets to see the heathen rising in the East. To recognize his bride for the Enemy and burn the disease before it reaches the roots.
Hear, what tales the cold ground tells you of who's buried beneath it: of all those the Star and her new spouse have cut and mutilated. Of his three sons and their shunned mother, all six but tools in the claws of the Queen.
Fall down and kiss the soil. Kiss it, thankful it has not yet been soaked in spilled blood.
The Blade shall not come to save you, this time. They shall not rise again to meet the gods of the Old Empire as they had so long ago; they will not cut down the Tyrant and her new pawn. They have already been laid to rest. But none of you have yet been given this privilege. You are still indebted to the earth, to the soil from which you've come.
So take up your arms and scream at your dukes; scream at those too gangrenous and blind and foolish to recognize Adam and his whore Eve for the harbingers of frenzy. Scream, and if they do not hear, strike his wicked sons and hairless forces with all of your own might.
Strike, while it still isn't too late. Strike, lest you wish to break the earth's heart, and return to it without having lived out the life it had planned for you.
Parable of Father Winter, Won Fairly by Lord Blackwood
A secret, you say? A tale about Erikesh, the old thing?
Hmm. Yes, there is a whisper I could share. One I've heard many moons ago.
The debt will not pay itself, after all.
You have to realize one thing right away, my fair chap: Erikesh was a trap; a state that could not work, not ever. It was no land, no country, no nation — not really. It wasn't built upon any real foundations, had no proper history or legacy. It was a desperate attempt at sense, constructed expeditiously by a man that was more warrior than architect. A man that listened more to his new bride and her lies than to reason.
It was built on lust for blind vengeance — a quest that soon turned against its own makers.
It's easy to say, all those lifetimes later, that he was a fool; that he had fallen right into her hands as but a puppet for her machinations. But who can blame him? She was beautiful like the stars, and she promised him power. Power far beyond anything a simple warmonger like him could ever imagine. Power enough to break the shackles of his humiliated peoples — power enough to depose of the gods he had so hated! — and take the fight to the homes of their despised betters.
All he had to do to become king was lean in for a kiss. To drink the poison directly from her lips.
No man that would stand in his place could resist the look in her eyes.
They couldn't have children together. She was but light, but brilliance bereft of flesh — even if he wished to father three more with another, Adam had no loins to drown in, this time. The only thing they had given birth to, together, was the might with which he awoke after the night they first lay together.
He certainly did not regret it then — if he ever did, of course, which in itself is dubious. He had no doubt in his mind when he took arms against what little numen remained after the fall of Mab's Old Empire, against the slumbering sanctity of the Nightwalkers. Against that which held the world together, back when the skies weren't this empty.
He had no doubt still when he spread his reach across the continent, widening his borders without anything but spilled blood to back them up; when he named himself lord on a hill of slain godheads and butchered cities.
The only thing he could see, then, were the lands he still had to take away from his Nightwalker brethren. He was certainly too blind to notice the closing maw around him, back then. He was even too blind to see its sharp teeth when they inevitably snapped around him, swallowing him whole.
Testimony of Little Sister Anaq, Surrendered Before the Serpent
It's all true, what they say. I have seen it with my very own eyes.
I saw as the last Evergreen fell, the foul flame visible from beyond the horizon. I saw as he and his sons dragged the last of Phomet's scholars from their courts and slit their throats on the pavement, their blood naught but nourishment for the ashen roots below. I saw as they all crawled like maggots, begging for mercy, only to be returned to the earth they so loved.
It is true what you've heard: that when he carried their deflated corpses onto the altars of his emergent capital, the flowers all bloomed; in every meadow, on every hill, in every forest. They all bloomed, their petals stained by ichor and their sky drowned in smoke.
They had little choice. They had to somehow mourn their fallen brothers.
I saw as he climbed the stairs to his palace and crowned himself God-King of Man, a brilliant diadem of starlight decorating his temples.
They were so proud of him, all three of his sons. I saw it, even far from across the cheering, fervid crowd. The warrior, the scholar, and the sage — they stood there as he took his mantle and raised his sword high into the heavens above; as if, in all of his vanity, he proclaimed them his, too.
No. She wasn't there with him, that day. Of that I am certain. I would recognize that spark anywhere. My little serpents tell me she has spent the moon down in the temple, silenty praying for her husband — or for what remains of him, after he's broken their marriage. After he's taken another into his bed.
I didn't see her, either, but I did not need to. It's her. I'd bet my life on it. My knowledge. My heart.
I do not know if she's there in body — or indeed if she has a form at all — but she is alive, it seems. Yes, the Queen has sprouted roots in Adam's heart; it is only a matter of time before they strangle him, too.
Visions of Reader Enyah, to Grand Crone Methur Umir, Dreamt Once More
He lay face down in the river, when we first found him. His hands were stained with the same crimson that drowned him.
We knew it was him that we had been looking for the second we touched him. We knew it was him who we had seen in our restless dreams when we saw the writhing runes writ in his flesh.
He was dead, of course, his body long but a dried-up husk; but he wasn't gone; not yet, not really. He still lingered on: some fragmented part of him, at least.
The part that had reached out to us. The part that still felt guilt.
His dreams whispered of abandoned home, the one he called Erikesh; of star-lit lies and moon-lit promises of a better tomorrow, built upon millenia of bloodied suffering and temptation. They whispered of promised valor, of a father — a fool, though one not yet realized — blinded by a dull, shining future.
They spoke of the man himself, of his position within the unsteady Erikesh. Of the endless tomes he'd written in languages long since forgotten; of the forbidden research he'd conducted; of the gangrenous symptoms he'd healed, without burning the rotten root of them all. Of his great brothers — older and younger — both shining beacons of courage and loyalty. Of the book-bound wisdom of the younger; of the steel-sharp blade and the adulation of the older. Of the burning jealousy he'd felt towards them both: first in whispers, then in fury.
And then, inevitably, in bloody murder.
Of course, we can hardly blame him, even for treason as great, as damnable as fratricide — for in the sad end, his actions were barely his own. The Starlight shone too bright in the minds of his and his father to merit anything but chaos, when push came to shove.
These are of course only fragments, imbued with little meaning but emotions; but they are still that which kept him alive. That which kept him restless, in desperate need for closure. As little more than a ghost.
Without a proper read, that is all we could see — but it is my personal opinion he isn't worth further effort. Now that he has been silenced, his connection to oneiroi severed, he is of no concern or use. He shall not disturb us again.
He's not worth much in skin or flesh — those have bloated and rotten far too much for the karcists to see them as useful — and the knowledge he retained is of no value even to us. His dreams are not of gold; they are but dust on the oneiroi, more annoyment than any hidden wisdom. Besides: the decadent Matriarchs of Daevon have little coin to offer nowadays, even if that weren't the case. It is my recommendation that we bring him to the Mekhanite in shining Atlantis; perhaps Mistress Legate shall take an interest in his runes. Maybe she will find a way to mend another one of the shattered, and forge him into good use in the heart of her stellar workshop.
Still, for all my cynicism, one question does linger, even if it is of little weight, all those years later: where are his kin? There have been legends of a warrior akin to his older, having fought through the Scarlet and fallen beneath Deavon, but what of the others? What of the mother, what of the father?
What of his younger?
Gospel of Pranith, Fifth Grand Pentar
There is a movement in the heavens. The stars are no longer aligned, no longer in harmony. Through the smoke fallen in the West and through the flames lit under the funeral pyres, I can see it, clear as the night: the beat of their echo has changed.
It is no longer worthy of sacrifice.
Why have they stopped? Why do they no longer whisper of transcendence, but remain blind to the rhythm of our hearts? What have we missed?
I can tell you, if you know how to keep a secret.
I can tell you, if you're willing to risk losing your head.
The stars of yesterday have been eclipsed by a power far brighter, far more treacherous than their own: by the Starlight, the Queen, the bitch your king has taken as his advisor. The bitch whose lies have beset his mind with visions of stagnation; the bitch whose lies have frozen his heart and cut out his soul on an altar built not for apotheosis, but for her own vanity. Her own trinkets, her own artifacts, all gathered in the vaults beneath their palace; her own glimmer of silver and gold, all stolen from a ruined world and brought together under the nose of a blind fool.
All but distractions from that which matters most: that the great change is upon us. The stars have seen it first, their true radiance departing from a dying world built upon faulty foundations; departing from a crumbling reality, its base tucked away for the shameless pride of its rulers, left alone to glimmer in darkness with their stolen valor; glimmer with the magic they have robbed the world of.
We are not any better: for just like moths to a fire, we too flew right into their fraud brilliance.
Visions of the Fall, Transcribed via Biased Seance by Olivié Gwyneth
The end is nigh. She can feel it in the cold evening breeze, the wind blowing through her Adam's long hair. His mind and soul once again shimmer with her ethereal presence. At the edge of their shared cohesion, she can sense it: the scent of burning change is unmistakable for anything else.
It smells of smoke, rising again from beyond the horizon; this time, however, it is his own that are aflame. There is nothing to be done, no salvation to bring to their last stand. When the inevitable fire reaches for the capital, come cold morning, there will be nothing she can do. She knows that she has already lost.
All of her effort, unto ashes and blood.
She has always been many things, but never a fool. She knew this was inevitable. Still: she had hoped to shift the scales even further in her favor, this time around. She has worked him well, she thought. Even if he was little but a brute, he had been a good tool. At times a puppet too loosely strung, perhaps, but he carried out her revenge, and came close to bringing her her starry crown again. Closer than any of the tools that came before him.
Closer, certainly, than she has dared to hope.
Somewhere deep between shadows, between life and death, in her frozen, unbeating heart, she knows this has always been a desperate attempt, little more than a gambit played in a last ditch effort to seize this millenium. If she had some few centuries more, if the previous bitch of his was out of his picture and two of his sons hadn't fallen out of her weakened hands; maybe then…
Well. It is no matter. What is done is done, and there is no chance to mend the broken world before it caves in on her plaything, his Erikesh.
It is a curious thing, really. That the world, bereft of its plurality in the arcane, will slowly start to crumble — this is new. It is fascinating. It makes sense, of course, but still: that magic will lay before the old reaper once all that it inhabited has been stashed away in the center of the capital for her revival is… certainly unexpected.
But it is of little concern. When her puppet will be gone from the mortal plane and the last shred of his pathetic empire will shrivel and drown, all will be returned. In time, the wild currents will run once more; perhaps with strength enough to break her ethereal dam, and let her back in, this time around.
For now, though, the game isn't yet over: not until tomorrow morning.
More than time enough to put those hands of his to good use, and spill some more blood.
Prophecies of Lilith the Steadfast, Angevin 24:5
She had loved him as a man. She had loved him as a king. But she could not love him as a god. Could not love him as a monster.
She could not love him as somebody else.
She had often heard — though never directly, never officially — that she had been too good. To weak for her own sake. Her little birds have told her, as she lay down in the temple, praying for his cleansing, that this was all her fault. That, in all of her loyallty, all of her forgiveness, it was she who had created the monster that now lay rotting in the heart of a decadent nation.
That it was not the other who had led him astray, but her. His Lilith.
There were moments — moments quite desperate but quite few, in the grand scheme of things, but nevertheless extant — in which she almost believed them. Moments of weakness under the moon-lit altar and the idols that stood upon it, always silent in their judgment.
She knew this was not the truth, of course; that, though she had perhaps been too merciful, she had done naught to hasten his downfall. That it was not her sins, however few, that had brought him down — and that to believe anything but was irrational.
But then again, the enamoured heart rarely is rational.
Either way, whatever the truth, it was too late for change. Too late for atonement. Now, all that she could do is deliver one final mercy upon him — one final act of love.
She knew she would be cursed for all of time for her intent. She knew very well that there was no coming back from that path, when the final judgment would come and all would be revealed.
But none of that is of any worth against the warmth of another. Against the rhythms of their hearts aligning for one final time.
In the end, though the heart in the center of Erikesh was still beating when her dagger reached it, it had long since stopped being his.
The Last Will of Seth, Archivist, Taken From the Erikesh Codex
To my oldest, I leave all that I have ever gathered. All those I have ever cared for. Each and every single beautiful part of creation that we have experienced and cataloged together. All that I ask of you is to love them as you would have loved me. Save them from that which is coming. Through the incoming waves, bring them towards a brighter future, each and every one of them.
Don't build it for them; build it with them.
To my younger, I leave all that I have ever written. All that I have ever deemed significant enough to remember. Each and every single tome committed to our shared legacy that we have bound and stored away together. All that I ask of you is to protect that heritage with our own honor. Save it from that which is coming. Never let us fall back behind the fire of our shared campfire in a time when darkness shrouds the world.
Don't be an archivist; be a teacher.
To you both, I leave an oath. A responsibility, for you both to take: do not be like us. Do not be like me, or my father, or my brothers, or our mother. Whatever may yet come — however tonight will end, when the spire of Erikesh inevitably falls upon all that which still remains — never forget why you are where you are. Never drop the memory of your kin, however vile; never drop the memory of our shared sins. Never make us forget, lest you wish become that which brought us our downfall.
Don't be leaders; be people.
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