From the Ashes

A true story of recent events, as recollected by Terakh Feyranti.

Cast of Characters:

The youth:
Terakh
Malikar
Obscu
Ralanbek

The Elders:
Shikha, the Mighty
Morvior, the Enlightened
Malarious, the Great
An unnamed elder

The Enemies:
Narsrim, the Foolish
Nydekion, the Pretty
Eventru, the Naïve
Two unnamed knights

The Story:

[The scene begins with several Magnagorans gathered around the great Megalith
of Doom, on the Primal Plane. Morvior is there, standing proudly in the
center, well-dressed; Shikha is crawling ten feet high along the Megalith as a
maggot; Terakh is there, pacing frantically, his face showing glimmers of
half-baked ideas leaping across it, but never meeting the approval of his lips;
Obscu sits with his hand to his chin, his eyes looking far beyond the horizon;
Several nameless elders and youth also congregate, their disparate rank obvious
by what they wear: there are only Privates and Generals to be found here, and
the chasm is clear. The Narrator, not part of the scene, stands upstage right,
facing the audience.]

Narrator: The fallen and converted Demon Lords continued to attack Magnagora,
as they had been for months. The Necromentate bellowed, its screams of agony
heard through the great Engine of Transformation, building a froth of anger
within its loyal citizens. The recent insult to Shikha, the Mighty, by Lord
Eventru, the Naïve, burned deeply into the souls of many, as her form was
plain to see by all who gathered at the great Megalith. She crawled upon its
glorious surface, maintaining head's height, her sign of composure even through
the sting of a petty God's wrath. A throng of warriors and mages from New
Celeste and Serenwilde poured through the planes of Nil and Earth, besieging
Magnagora without end. The Necromentate, the guardian and shield of Magnagora,
was falling apart faster than it could be repaired. Nerves were wearing thin.
All knew that something must be done, but none knew what.

[The curtain raises as the Narrator ends his speech.]

Morvior: They are still wreaking havoc in Nil. We've sent another squadron of
our best men to intercept them, but we are all wearying.

[With impeccable timing, we see the body of Malarious is thrown disgracefully
outward from the megalith, into the center of the congregation. He stands tall
and dusts himself off, obviously frustrated.]

Malarious: This is futile, Magistrate! We simply don't have the numbers to
confront them. They think themselves so great, yet they have neither tactics
nor wisdom. They have only the might of single-mindedness, and the strength of
the horde. It is the curse of our great ways that foolishness naturally claims
the masses!

Morvior: The Merians and the Elfen stand together as one. Our histories tell
us that the High Priestess of the Moon, Farella Lunseer herself, refused to
ally with Celeste in their most dire hour. “Serenwilde will not ally with
Celest,” she said. “We will never trust Celest again.” As our great
Taint spread, Celest stood alone. Oh, how quickly the shortsighted Elfen
forget themselves; the tiny shred of nobility that separated them as the lesser
of evils has finally split. And now they are but pawns of the Crusaders: pets
to fish! [At that, Morvior spits on the ground in disgust.]

Nameless elder: And while we fight the combined onslaught of the blind leading
the blind, our friends in Darkness hide in the Shadows, as is their wont. Does
Glomdoring not see that when they bore of us, the foul horde will move on to
them? And what has become of their once-seething hatred of Serenwilde? If
anything, it is precisely because we stand alone, and because we refuse to hide
away or silence our mouths, that we are attacked first. It is because Celest
remembers well that they could not handle us alone!

Morvior: Do not be too quick to speak against our brothers and sisters of the
Night. What reason would they have to join us in direct battle? It is not
their way. They wait and watch from beneath their Ravenwood canopy. Some of
their number aid us in tying down our Necromentate, and others provide us with
goods. It may even be to our benefit that they are able to do so, a privilege
of their relative safety. This is our fight, to win or to lose. We are the
Engine, and our greatness is not contingent upon daily victory. The future is
ours.

[Terakh stops his pacing, exasperated by another scream from the Necromentate]

Terakh: Always on the defensive, they have us. If we cannot muster a wall to
keep them out, why not send in a team to strike them on the offensive for once?
Would it not at least distract them? Could it not at least boost morale?

Malarious: We have tried. They have the numbers to break off half their
offense and hold ours at a stalemate, while the remaining half continues to
strike on Nil and Earth. Even if we manage one hit to them, it does not hold
our Necromentate. We must continue to gather spikes. The elders will fight,
and die if we must.

Terakh: I can see no greater honor than to give my life to the Engine. But my
body is young. Our city is full of energetic young adventurers; we pad the
numbers on paper but not in practice. We spend day after day gathering spikes,
only to see the net number yet dwindle. We feel for the fight of our elders,
but cannot join it. We could be the great future of a restored Magnagora, but
we lack the needed fuel for impetus. It is too painful for us to see the land
we love besieged in such a way, and we will begin throwing our lives into the
fire of crusades, if only to share in the burn!

[Malarious slams Terakh on the back, almost knocking him over.]

Malarious: You have spirit, Terakh! But that's exactly what they want, and it
will only make your body weaker. We can see that your souls are strong -- far
stronger than the likes of those who attack us. And when your bodies grow
stronger, and your swords larger, your magic greater, and your armor thicker,
those souls will lead us to heights not seen even in our heyday. But you MUST
wait! You are still able to help the city in many other ways, and those are
now more essential than any fighting.

Terakh [pointing at the maggot on the Megalith]: That is one of my Sargeants,
one of my great leaders as a soldier of the Engine. One of our greatest
Ur'Guard: Shikha, the Mighty, the Blade of the Ouroboros. Ours is a land that
knows Vengeance -- not the soft, sparkly, golden-white vengeance that the
Celestians claim upon us, but the dark, bloody vengeance of hate and pain.
Eventru has crossed the line, but we cannot strike a God. [Terakh clearly gets
an idea, and his face says Eureka!] We can't fight the demigods, and we can't
strike a God -- but we CAN defile a shrine. Even the youngest can defile as
well as the oldest.

[Some of the youth stand quickly, their eyes glowing brightly at the prospect
of being in the fray.]

Obscu [Standing and jumping forward]: Count me in! I'd love to see the faces
on those stinking fish. What do we do?

Terakh: Well, we could use corpses, but I think if that's all we do, it would
take a very long time. We'd get very little defiling done.

[Running in from stage left, with an overstuffed backpack] Ralanbek: I have
corpses! And I don't care how much we accomplish. It's well worth the effort
to me to simply get in there and do some damage. It's like spitting in their
faces: it's the thought that counts!

Obscu: Well-said, Ralanbek. Hey Terakh, do you know where a shrine even is?

[Running in from stage right] Malikar: I do! I know just how to get there.
And the best part is it's right in the heart of New Celest; in their Cathedral,
no less!

Obscu: How the hell are we going to get into the middle of the lions' den? We
couldn't even make it past their guards. And that arrogant moron, Narsrim,
he'd kill us with one foul look from behind his idiotic visage.

Terakh: I see a golden opportunity here, Obscu. They don't know us. Their
guards have never been alerted to us. For all they know, we're pilgrims
wandering in for a look-see. We will all be marked enemies of Celest someday
-- let's do it right!

Malikar: I would hate to think that someday I would earn my spot as an enemy
for a wrongly-placed word or a simple fishing trip. I will EARN their ire.
You three do all the defiling you please -- I am a nihilist, a guardian of
Magnagora. I will bring the Taint to their land. Nothing could be sweeter.

Terakh: I happen to have some extra money, and I know where I can buy some
esteem bottles. They will defile much faster than corpses. So it will be a
blitz! Obscu and I will destroy with the esteem of the greatest minds and
mouths of the Engine. Ralanbek will offer the corpses of his recent battles as
a symbol of our Gods' greater strength. And Malikar, you will spread the sweet
Taint of victory throughout their pathetic land!

Malikar: We'll have to swim through the lake, and enter the back way. From
there we can make a quick walk to the cathedral, and let the chaos begin.
Terakh: Then let us prepare and embark. Make no mistake: we go to our deaths.
But what great deaths they will be. No sword may undo what we will do today!

[The curtain closes and as it opens, we see our four adventurers climbing out
of the wings of stage left, soaked in water peering about them at this new
land, with disgust and disdain. They walk slowly and measuredly, showing both
a desire to go unnoticed and a wary readiness to charge in all haste, if need
be.]

Obscu [somewhat quietly, to Ralanbek]: Look at this place! Have you ever even
heard of anything so... pathetic?

Malikar [looking back slightly towards Obscu, also quietly]: I've been here
before, although I've never been to the center of the city before, or in its
cathedral. They complain of our Taint, but there's a palpable air here, too.
It's like the lack of taint is itself pushing at me, suffocating me.

Obscu: It's disgusting, like washing your mouth out with soap.

Ralanbek: It's all sparkling and gleaming -- there are white horses and lace
and pastels and -- [he gags a bit] -- it's all so effeminate and puerile. How
can they take themselves seriously?!

Terakh: That's just it -- they overcompensate. Still, I can't fight the
feeling that only grand treachery could ever elevate these flopping fish to a
threat to our greatness. You certainly can't see it coming out of this...
nursery.

[Malikar stops and signals for the others to do so, too]: This is it, their
prissy cathedral.

[Almost at a whisper] Terakh: Okay guys, we have one chance to make this work.
Obscu and I will go in and drop our bottles by each shrine, but not too close to
them. Ralanbek, offer up your corpses near the door of the cathedral -- we have
to work from the outside in. Malikar, do your thing. Let's see taint fill
their city before a guard can blow a whistle. [He takes a deep breath and
smirks] See you guys at the portal of fate.

[The four rush into a door unseen by the audience, near upstage middle.
Malikar chants and walks around the inner perimeter of the cathedral, while
Ralanbek kneels at the door and opens his pack. Terakh and Obscu move to the
middle-right and middle-left portions of the cathedral, like the foci of an
ellipse, and look at one another, grin and nod, then smash their bottles on the
ground. They then go to Ralanbek to aid with his prayer over his bag. By this
time, several Celestians have come to the door. Narsrim, the foolish, stands
in the middle. He is wearing a dunce cap with a copper halo, and wields a
sword that is comically large, as though he's compensating for something.
Attached to him by an interlocking belt is Nydekion, who is carried around
almost like a stuffed doll. Narsrim moves in big, ape-like motions, jerking
Nydekion from place to place, though Nydekion's face shows only a misplaced
sternness. Two silvery warriors stand at either side with giant shields and
serious expressions.]

Narsrim [bounding into the cathedral with grandiose movements, his hands
flailing about above his head, his voice cracks with the squeal of disbelief]:
What... What are you DOING?!

Malikar: We're fixing up the place.

Terakh: We have defiled the shrines of your Gods and tainted your pathetic
city. We have come to die for the glory of the Engine.

Narsrim [again, voice cracking]: I'll KILL you for this!

Terakh [blinking, speaking slowly]: Yes. Yes, we know. That's... what I said.

Ralanbek and Obscu laugh at Narsrim

Narsrim [effeminately]: STOP it! Don't laugh at ME! I'm Narsrim! NARSRIM! I
have a VERY big sword!

Terakh: The scars you leave upon our flesh will fill us with pride and fervor
every time we look at them. Please, Narsrim, strike down these sheep that we
may become lions!

[Terakh, Obscu, Ralanbek, and Malikar each step forward into one of the four
Celestians, remaining just an arm's-length in front of them. They close their
eyes and breathe deep.]

The four Magnagorans, in unison: For Magnagora! [And in unison reply, the four
Celestians swing their swords toward the Magnagorans' necks, and the curtain
drops.]

[As the curtain raises, we can see the four Magnagorans walking close together,
exiting the Portal of Fate. They are laughing and patting each other on the
back and giving “high-fives.” They are clearly proud of what they've done,
and entertained at the Celestians' anger.]

Terakh: Hooo. It's never pleasant coming out of the Portal of Fate like that,
but it was worth it!

Ralanbek: Are you kidding? I've never felt so alive!

Malikar: I can smell the sweet smell of victory from here. It smells like
Taint!

Obscu: Nothing they do will ever undo this victory. They may smash us all
with their numbers and their infantile anger, but they will never take this
from us.

Terakh: Don't forget, it was the inexperienced youth of Magnagora who staged
this assault. What could more thoroughly offend the arrogant likes of Narsrim
and Nydekion? We will surely be hunted for this, but our prowess against them
in direct combat was never an issue. Any moron can become strong with enough
practice, as they well show. But our souls are mightier than theirs. And they
will always be angry children in my eyes!

Ralanbek: Let them come. They won't break us!

Malikar: Here, here!

Terakh: I will see you three at the Megalith, and we can boast of our fun! I
have some things to do, and will walk back.

[They each give a swift valediction and depart by teleportation. Terakh starts
to walk casually down the hill as Narsrim and Nydekion, still belted together,
appear in a flash before him.]

Narsrim: Stop right there!

Terakh: How can I help you, sirs?

Narsrim [stomping dramatically in a semi-circle]: I am Narsrim, and I am ANGRY!
You will FEEL my wrath!

Nydekion [meekly]: I'm Nydekion. I'm really strong, too. My god likes me.

Narsrim [Whining in a high pitch]: WHYYY did you do that, Terakh? Why did you
guys DO it?!

Terakh: We did it to make you angry. And so you come to me angry.

Narsrim: I'm gonna kill you SO bad!

Terakh: Nothing would make me happier.

[Narsrim strikes down Terakh. Nydekion just gets hurled around by his hitch.]

[The curtain stays up while the scene is purposefully cleared and we see Terakh
again step through the portal of fate. He looks frustrated, pained, a bit
angry, but he stands tall. After he dusts himself off and takes in slow breath
to push away his physical pain, he begins to walk forward, only to see Narsrim
again appear in a flurry of motes. Narsrim's voice isn't quite as comical as
before. His anger has broken through his ego, leaving a single focus in his
small mind, driving him like an automaton, and his voice is almost broken,
almost out of breath.]

Narsrim: I will kill you so many times, Terakh, you won't remember ever having
lived. I will strike your city through the night and through the day until it
falls.

Nydekion: Me, too.

Narsrim [tired and seething, though still fairly animated]: I will slaughter
your youth. I will stalk your denizens. There will be no reprieve. I have
lived in this world for six of your lifetimes, little one. Your city will
break before I sleep.

Terakh: You fail to understand the engine, foolish Narsrim. You can only make
us stronger with your anger. We are Pain; We are Hunger; We are Despair. You
will feed us with your frenzy, as you feed me now with your fervor. Your
repeated slaying of me only shows me how deeply you were wounded, and I shall
feast in my death upon the blood of your pride. My city will do the same. You
are nothing but physical strength hoisted upon the frail soul of an angry child.
And so you do not see that by tearing our flesh, you build our souls. You do
not see that we are the scions of taint, the blessed by death, that from the
ashes of your onslaught we will rise anew, as one, with fire in our hearts that
you will have ignited. So sow your rage in our soil. We know well how to
cultivate it!

Narsrim: You talk too much, ur'Guard.

[Narsrim cuts Terakh down again.]

[As Terakh leaves the portal this time, his lip turned up in a sneer, his eyes
wide with hate, he walks solidly forward, aware of what will happen. Narsrim
teleports in front of him, sword raised. Terakh's face melts from its hatred
and his lips curl up on either side. His chest starts to twitch and his brow
unfurrows as his eyebrows raise. He begins to laugh. Rumbling and louder he
laughs, as he points at Narsrim, tears starting to fall from his eyes in
laughter. He grabs his gut and falls to his knees, pointing all the while at
Narsrim, laughing in mockery and almost gaiety. He falls back onto his behind,
with his eyes squinted shut, laughing still, as Narsrim frowns and brings his
sword upon Terakh's head once more. The curtain lowers this time. Surely, the
audience gets the point.]

Narrator [in front of the curtain]: As Narsrim had promised, Celest decended
upon Magnagora in great force. There is no way now to know whether this really
had anything to do with the tainting of Celest and the defiling of their
shrines. It may have sped the inevitable a bit. But Terakh was right. The
likes of Narsrim and Nydekion, the foolish and naïve and singleminded
crusaders of Celest, could never understand what they truly did that day.
Magnagora did not fall. Surely, their Necromentate was released from its
prison, as was the goal of Serenwilde and New Celeste. But they could not see
past their simple goal. They think in small terms. From the ashes of a
would-be defeat, rose an order unseen for years in Magnagora. The youth banded
together, strengthened by the tasks they completed to raise a new Necromentate.
They worked tirelessly around the clock to birth a new guardian, and to spike it
into place. The elders, once nearly giving way to apathy or despair, saw the
fervor, dedication, and diligence of these cogs, working in efficient and
unquestioning unison, and their dejectedness was replaced by hope. The large
and small cogs of the city now fit together like never before. Within days,
those that were kicking the dirt were now pumping their fists in the air. It
was just the fuel the Engine needed. For in the land of Taint, it is pain that
brings strength, and it is hatred that brings unity. Woe be to the enemies of
Magnagora when the seeds that were sown that day are harvested. Woe be to the
fools that sowed them.