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| An Agreement Among Bones; tag: Sammeln | |
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| Topic Started: Apr 26 2016, 07:45 PM (200 Views) | |
| Hiram Jollenbeck | Apr 26 2016, 07:45 PM Post #1 |
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...Even to wear such knowledge--for our flesh/ surrounds us with its own decisions--/ and yet spend all our lives on imprecisions,/ that when we start to die/ have no idea why.
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Here, not even the dreams of the dead spoke. The muffle of silence had fallen over Hiram a little under a mile away, a dismal veil that smothered out all life. He could feel the muted pump of his convoy’s thoughts, but only as vague images through windows of shivering glass; there was humidity in the air and about their souls, blanketed by the shadows of rain. The static of an unborn storm, the tension, was present. And when they first saw the silhouette of the spire against the pinkish evening sky, the stocky building perched on its rock outcrop like a gargoyle about to spring, the storm broke. He was here to meet a man – that he knew, and little more. The simplicity of the Kaadian had been a blessing after the confusion of avoiding Madrid; the troubles of the south had thrown a spanner in his plans to meet several of the councilmen. Julius had sent word of the assault ahead and advised Hiram, rather than put himself in danger, to carve out a clear path around the once-peaceful city. Now he had missed out on a few crucial alliances, but not all was lost: he had clutched the letter from his mysterious ‘admirer’ close the past few days, debating the merits of taking him up on his offer. For all the world he seemed nothing more than a crackpot, more mysterious than pragmatic, and yet… In the end, Hiram went with his intuition. The offer was too strange, too oddly out of place, to ignore. And something about the handwriting seemed familiar, the restrained delicacy of it that seemed always on the verge of slipping into something monstrous. The bones of a church resting in free lands… An enthusiastic supporter of your written works… But if he was here, Father Jollenbeck could not see him. They were nearly up the winding stone steps to the entrance before he could make out any details at all on the grand cathedral’s façade. The fact made him nervous – he felt he was looking at a man’s silhouette of a sudden, as if the cathedral itself were his mysterious correspondent, as if when he came into its shadow he’d see its face and it would stir into grotesque motion. Of course, no such thing happened: he saw only the spindly spiderweb of its tympanum, the contours of its archivolt radiating outward like ripples in a pond. Curiouser and curiouser. They found a place to tie up the horses, but it made Hiram yet more nervous to leave old Godwin nickering and scratching his hooves in the damp dirt. Outside of the massive cathedral’s shelter, the rain was coming down in sheaves and lightning was cracking madly across the sky. The other priests were murmuring, their voices quiet – inaudible – a babble of nonsense-words filtered in and out of the hiss-and-bang. Hiram couldn’t tell their fear from his own, couldn’t tell that from the general panic and noise of the storm. BOOM! A jolt ran through the convoy; a few young priests jumped, shivering in their wet robes. “Good old Morrimian weather,” laughed Hiram, small voice cutting above the sound of the rain; he was in an oddly electric mood, his nerves set on fire by the dramatic setting. Sweeping off his hat, he set off toward the great wooden doors, raising his voice once again against the howling wind. “Come along!” Inside, the chill clung close to the crumbling stone; their clacking footsteps echoed up into the rafters, where bats fluttered and clung to rotting wood. Hiram cast his eyes around, struggling against the shadows. He could sense Aldric nearby struggling to keep his calm, to rein in the panicked anger that was always hounding his heels. At intervals, a crack of lightning lit the long nave in holy fire; then the slender columns’ shadows were picked out in stark black against white stone. He was halfway down the nave when he saw the hooded figure lingering by the altar in another blaze of light. He stopped in his tracks a few yards away as thunder rolled through the ground like a stirring leviathan – one, two, three, he’d counted, between the light and the sound. All too close. “Good evening, ser,” came his tremulous voice, echoing hectically in the massive ruin. A few more steps brought him closer to the unreadable figure, the dusty black hem of his robe rustling about his boots. “Vespasian’s blessings.” Hesitant, he bowed – just as Aldric came to take his place beside him, striking a threatening pose. Edited by Hiram Jollenbeck, Apr 26 2016, 09:10 PM.
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| Sammeln | Apr 27 2016, 04:35 PM Post #2 |
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Business had become difficult in Morrim. If one was completely honest, business had become difficult everywhere; but Morrim was a particularly problematic point. It had been a frequent thorn in his side for ages now, one costly and ambitious venture after another had prevented him from claiming the authority over it that he so craved. In recent years, he’d helped discretely to incite a peasant revolt, and slightly less discretely funded the rebels. However other business matters had complicated everything and forced him to keep his involvement on behalf of the people from being revealed. All the expense had been a complete waste. It had become an acceptable loss at the time, when the former Empress’ advisor had brought him what could have been the throne on a silver platter. If it hadn’t been for that damned noble Leofric! The man who snatched the throne from his grasp just as it was to finally be his, had not been so foolish as others, to overlook Sammeln. He’d been watching him since before the Kreis, and continued to do so doubly afterwards. With his every move in Morrim being monitored, Sammeln’s hidden movements had quickly come to a halt. The level of scrutiny he was under made it too risky. One noble could be silenced; but an aware Emperor was in a position to do true damage. His discrete ventures all but stopped, left only his public avenues, which had also begun to suffer under excessive scrutiny. That left matters where they now stood. Business had become difficult in Morrim. Sammeln tried frequently to blame the current emperor for the difficulties he was now faced with; but in the end he knew who was truly at fault. He’d outed the Empress, saw her fall, been in position to take the throne; but in a moment of arrogance cost himself everything. In a desire to play things safe, and with the hope of seeing his defeated enemy bowing at his feet, he had made that fatal mistake. He had agreed to the joust. He could blame old laws, or Leofric’s cunning till the end of all things; but in the end, it was himself and himself alone that had agreed to that damned joust. It could have been a simple battle, a bloody conflict of martial skill ending him ripiing a man in to two halves. Standing over that broken corpse he would have been Emperor of that entire land, and true progress on his ideals could have begun. Instead, he’d agreed to a joust, in an arrogant moment of overconfidence, and a foolish desire to begin his reign peaceably rather than on a bloody note. In the end, humans only respected blood and fear, it was a truth he always knew; but chose to ignore that day. He would not forget that truth again, for doing so once forced him to live with a more vile fact. All the turmoil, all the tumbling dominoes of his network of wealth and power which were falling, was his fault. Had he been emperor, the fall of Soto would have not been so grave a blow. Had he been Emperor, agreements could have been made with Angkar, which would help him drive out Sigvard. Had he been Emperor, he could have had the attention to notice Ashoka’s boiling point drawing near, and prepared himself for the many shifts in power. Instead his empire was ebbing away all around him, and the blame rested soley on his own shoulders. This unavoidable truth was a corrosive acid that wore every day on his nerves. Deep within himself where the wellspring of his tremendous anger constantly boiled, his restraint was being eaten away. His temper had been bursting forth more frequently, like a mountain warning the people below it that it would soon erupt, and things now felt like a race to appease this anger, before it escaped its confinement and buried all around it. Sammeln had to find some semblance of control as everything he had worked for was beginning to slip away. New footholds needed to be made, new angles approached, new avenues ventured. It had taken a great deal of racking his brain, searching for information by reading his historical archives, and immersing himself in current art and culture. How unexpected it had been, that the very that sat on the throne where he should be, would bring about the inspiration, which brought Sammeln new hope. He had read the works of Hiram Jollenbeck, as he had read most modern tomes entered into his library. The man’s ideals were well and good; but not exactly in line with Sammeln’s own desire for absolute control. Sammeln had viewed them as the wishful dreams of a man not yet jaded by the world as he had been. Still, the man’s way with words had painted the picture of an author with a worthy and capable mind. When news reached Sammeln of the reclusive author’s new lofty position, the pieces of a plan once more began to fall into place. Finally, there was something to grab hold of. It was not ideal, it was not total; but it was preferable to watching everything fall. Sammeln had brought himself low with his own two hands, and now it was time to once more use them to build himself back up. - - - - - Thunder boomed through the hollowed shell that had once been a place of comfort and warmth to some. It no longer offered shelter to lost souls from the world; but instead was a dark house for meetings such as this. A wavering voice found itself barely above the noise of the storm, and addressing a solitary robed figure standing before an altar. In response, that single figure slowly turned. In a cautious manner they shuffled forward, head hung down, any detail about them obscured by robe or long hood. As the figure drew nearer the inquiring man it slowed further and gently raised its hands in a sign of peaceful submission. In one hand was something pale. A flash of lightning cast its light to reveal the object was sealed and folded parchment. A gloved hand stayed raised, fingers splayed, in a show of peace, and the other gingerly held out the letter towards its intended recipient. Once it was received, and begun to be opened, the figure did not wait for them to finish. Instead they lifted their head enough to reveal, once more by light of lightning, a white, faceless, mask. The robbed and masked messenger moved with fluid grace as they sprung backwards on to their hands, then feet, then hands, then feet once more in an acrobatic display that ended when they vaulted over the altar they had been standing before. Just like that, they seemed to disappear entirely, as if the altar were hiding a bottomless abyss on its other side in to which the silent acrobat had vaulted. The note was written in the same delicate script as the summons had been. Just as cryptically it read Do not be afraid. As if in challenge of this command, the large, age worn doors of the abandoned cathedral seemed to pull shut of their own accord. While the storm could still be heard, it was not quite as loud as it had been when they hung open. One could easily hear the many leaks over the sound of the wind, which howled through cracks instead of all around. Lightning flashed and still nothing else seemed to have changed, save that the count between it and thunder had shrunk from three to two. Only the most attuned and observant eyes might have caught talons lifting away from the wall and retreating behind the transept. Even that may have been a trick of light and shadows. With the few stars and scarce moon bloted out by thick clouds, there was little light outside, let alone within the withering structure. The pouring rain and whistling wind would make listening for movement nearly impossible. Yet if one strained perhaps some could see the moving mass stepping out from the transept and into the open crossing. It did not take long for its presence to be outlined by the flash of storm’s light casting the cathedral into pale white and stark blacks. It was clear this new looming shrouded figure was no stationary statue but something that could move. By the next flash of lightning it had crossed over the altar and entered the end of the nave before stopping. A hooded head lifted up and from within the first that could be seen were two luminous green orbs, standing as a contrast to the utter darkness that surrounded them. For a moment, Sammeln said nothing, simply taking the drenched mass in with his roving eyes. He watched their reactions to his arrival, analyzed how they fared in the face of his theatrics. It was one thing to be feared when walking down the street in broad daylight, that had plagued him for his entire life. It was entirely another thing to strike someone through the drama of your arrival, and that was something that Sammeln could not help but enjoy. He let his hood fall down, and soon after the sound of a great cloth falling and crumpling to the floor followed, as his obfuscating cloak was abandoned, allowing the assembled to see their host of sorts for who he was. The towering reptile was illuminated by another flash of lightning, this time that light was able to glint off his famously crimson scales, and the gold collar, which held the massive prized Lais-Lazuli eternally around his neck. He was dressed in a fur mantle, made from some unknown beast that must have been terribly large to accommodate his frame. A loose white tunic covered his chest beneath that, and around his waist a simple leather kilt. The usual dance and shimmer of light bouncing off a plethora of gold and jewels was absent on this night. After all, one had to dress for their company, and men of the cloth were hardly appreciative of such displays. “Good Evening, Father Jollenbeck.” A voice not unlike the thunder which shook the sky, rumbled forth from his chest and echoed down the nave. The greeting was accompanied by a steep and generous bow, and yet even in such a position, he stood higher than nearly every man in the room. “I would also wish Vespasian’s blessings upon you; but I do not think she would hear the tidings of one like me.” Sammeln then rose and his large green eyes both rolled forward to fix on a single man. Hiram Jollenbeck was exactly as Sammeln’s sources had described him. Still to a finally realized wisp of disappointment, he was nothing like the image of a man which was created when reading his works. Still, Sammeln knew better than to be daunted by this, for he knew better than many, to not judge any book by its cover. “Forgive my cryptic invitation; but I am glad you were able to deduce the location, and willing to attend.” Sammeln once more addressed the leader of the small soggy crowd before him. “If you are aware of me by reputation or rumor, than perhaps you already understand; but in any case allow me to introduce myself.” Once more he bowed; but only slightly this time as he gave his introduction. “I am Sammeln Eidechse.” Once more he raised his head and a trace of an amused smirk attempted to betray his inner anticipation. “ and I believe we have a great deal to discuss.” |
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| Hiram Jollenbeck | May 1 2016, 05:46 PM Post #3 |
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...Even to wear such knowledge--for our flesh/ surrounds us with its own decisions--/ and yet spend all our lives on imprecisions,/ that when we start to die/ have no idea why.
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The figure grew closer. Some of the younger priests took a few steps back, clerical blacks rustling; somewhere behind, one man grabbed the arm of another, clutching his hat close to his chest such that his knuckles were white. Hiram braced his shaky legs and jerked his chin, quirking an eyebrow as the cloaked individual raised one slender hand and extended a note with the other. The mask beneath the cowl was as unyielding as it was disturbing. He took the note with a firm grip, frowning deeply. “Father Jollenbeck, what does it say?” But Hiram stared into the shifting shadows; he watched the figure bend, graceful as a willow’s dipping branches, and tumble back behind the altar. He was conscious of the way the parchment crackled and fluttered in his trembling fingers. The roll of thunder was still a distant burble, a waterfall behind a hundred walls. To Hiram, the entire cathedral seemed alive with fear – even Aldric, stoic Aldric, looked about him with red-eyed anticipation, his broad face twisted with confusion. Hiram could sense them shrinking into themselves, waiting, tense and distressed. There was a tiny crack as Hiram broke the seal and opened the document. A few moments passed. “It says,” he replied at length, burbling with a little giggle, “not to be afraid.” A wave of nervous chuckles shuddered through the retinue. Then: BOOM. At the slam of the doors, Jollenbeck himself whirled, stumbling back and touching Aldric d’Lsigny’s arm; his entourage scattered like so much seed in a strong breeze. Some of them were huddled together, shooting angry glances at one another and at the man who had brought them here. Hiram felt the weight of their frustration; there was a powerful desire like a thrum through them all to be home, wherever that was, safe and steady and working. The theologian himself flushed, scratching his jaw, turning and looking about himself and pushing down the panic in his chest and in the tight line of his back. Well, he thought with not a little wryness, is this it? Is this where I’m crushed like a bug? What would Julius say? He could hear his pupil’s grim admonition and, setting his jaw, resolved not to think about it. Then, as Hiram was scanning the great double-doors for any sign of who or what had shut them, an elderly priest cried out. "The statue... moves...!" His watery rasp rose and petered out in the fashion of a guttering candle, snuffed out by something: Hiram, straddling the floor, one hand on Aldric’s forearm and the other raised in a signal of peace, could not turn to look at what had grabbed their attention. He shut his eyes. Heavy footsteps sounded, clacking across the floor from around the transept. His heart was thudding fit to leap out of his chest and fly to the rafters. There was a powerful, reserved presence nearing them. Hiram could sense that much. He could sense a stifled anger like a dormant volcano, a thirst for power that could never be sated, a greedy exhibitionist’s love of grandeur. There was much that he could not sense, stirring like a leviathan beneath a film of ice. “Gᴏᴏᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴɪɴɢ, Fᴀᴛʜᴇʀ Jᴏʟʟᴇɴʙᴇᴄᴋ,” said the thunder. Hiram turned round just as the massive ophite dropped his hood, drinking in the entire ensemble – the furs, the prized lapis-lazuli, the muted finery, the kilt – with one look of his wide, startled eyes. In a panicked sequence of moments, he tried to pair the scales and the vicious green eyes with the delicate writing on the missives. Hardly, his mind kept stumbling, hardly, hardly, hardly… Aldric’s muscles were clenched, ready to spring, but Hiram’s hand held the big man fast. The shivering entourage stood listening to the giant Lord of the Kaadian, mesmerized. After he’d finished, another flash of lightning washed the crumbling columns and niches white. Hiram counted the seconds, bracing himself: One, tw… BOOM. A few more moments passed in careful silence. The theologian found himself strangely capable of looking the infamous Master Eidechse in the eye; no matter what he had heard of the other man, -- and he had heard much, between the Kreiss and all that had passed during the revolt – he could not set aside the feeling that he looked at a monster rather than a person. It was queer. He sensed a rich complexity of feeling beneath those curious red scales, but his sluggish mind could not bring itself to believe that the huge lizard before him, this, this… “Vespasian hears the tidings of all,” laughed Hiram, taking a few shaky steps away from Aldric and toward Sammeln. “L-Lord… Eidechse. What an unexpected pleasure. I imagine that we do indeed have much to discuss. A-As you know me, I shall hardly… reintroduce myself. But I…” He paused, then gestured with one trembling hand to the ex-monk behind him. “This is Aldric d’Lsigny, one of my… men of business.” Damn… Damn. What would Julius say, if he were here? Hiram sensed some anticipation from the Lord of the Kaadian, betrayed by a little smirk of his face. “I assume you wish to discuss these matters in private. Shall we… Shall we… take a stroll, then?” Edited by Hiram Jollenbeck, May 1 2016, 05:49 PM.
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| Sammeln | Aug 6 2016, 03:43 PM Post #4 |
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Two green smouldering orbs that served as the eyes of Sammeln roved wildly from face to face. Taking, nay, drinking, in every reaction, every twitch, every tremble and startled gasp. It was the truest indulgence that had yet to dull with over saturation. Sammeln never grew tired of witnessing the reactions to his theatrics, to his presence, to his raw majesty. When he had been a younger creature, the gasps of shock and horror had only been painful reminders of what he was not. As time and the world turned ever onward, he had grown in both size and wisdom, and with that growth he learned. While the terror in the streets at his mere passing was still a pain he had learned to suffer, the same shock on the faces of men meeting him, especially for the first time, was a treat. Their fear was not an insult, but rather a praise for the raw power at his disposal, and the might his very presence emanated. Once cast in this light, these facts of his existence had become more prominent tools in his arsenal, and his flair for the dramatic reveal and thirst for mortal surprise only grew. The band of humble holy men did not disappoint his hunger. To his credit Hiram did not faint, as some men had before. To the credit of their faith, none of the men attempted to strike him with arrow, spear, or stone. Sammeln watched them react, murrmor stammer, and turn to their leader who truly must have been whom he claimed to be. Had he been but a decoy or imposter, his men would not have turned to him for guidance in their dismay. It seemed this meager man who meticulously mused on matters of mind and spirit in Morrim, was not entirely unlike the man presented in his writings, for he had presence of mind to uplift Sammeln towards their foolish diety, and in a single line speak of his love for all things. Sammeln nodded wordlessly to the man whom he’d already surmised to be Adlric, based on the information he had been given through various informants. There was no threat there, and no need to waste words on the devout muscle of the small scribe. Not when his coming actions would speak so much louder to his credit. “It seems the weather has conspired against a lengthy stroll in these barren and breaking bones.” Sammeln explained, and as if in recognition of its mention the storm chose to speak up through another peal of thunder. “However there are places here where we may speak more candidly to one another about many things. But first, it would be rude of me to leave your companions in dreary surroundings with no comforts after the long and trying journey to reach this place. Allow me to be a gracious host, after all, while I am not recognized as a lord of these lands, I do still consider them mine.” Sammeln raised one mighty hand and with a swift and delicate gesture, reproduced a human snap by striking two of his needle sharp claws against each other. Not a second after the sharp sound shot through the spacious hall, dozens of lights ignited overhead. From their silent positions within the rafters and arches of the vaulted ceilings, the faceless troupe descended in their form fitting outfits of black and white and flat featureless masks. Like a private show of a soundless circus, they tumbled down ribbons which had dropped towards the floor and the lights moved with them. Candles in simple but fine holders and torches which were soon placed in sconces lit the way, followed quickly by members that moved the wreckage of pews in teams, weaving around their guests as if they too were part of the show. Soon tables were assembled from pieces that had been hidden throughout the hall, and on them the candles were set once the tables were adorned with white linen cloths. Wooden plates and pewter goblets sailed through the air from one hanging acrobat to another before a third tumbler caught them and placed them with precision along the lengthy table upon which they tumbled. While the table was set the other flying figures swung across the ceiling on their ribbon ropes as if they hardly needed them and long black curtains of heavy cloth were hung over every window, helping to quiet the sounds of the storm as well as obscure the light within from shining to the world without. From behind the altar where the first tumbler they had seen had vanished, it and others appeared carrying baskets and barrels which soon were opened and laid upon the table to become a meal of vegetables, meats, wines, and even fruit. A banquet fit for the Morrimian clergy had been summoned and laid out before the men in moments, by tumbling, spinning, dancing wonders and now to serve them were those same faceless figures. The silent performers took on the roles as servers with ease. Through pantomime and gentle touches they attempted to usher their guests to the tables around which the few sturdy remaining pews had been arranged as seating. In a moment the echoing empty abandoned cathedral had been turned into a warm and tempting dining hall. In that same moment Sammeln had not only displayed his hospitality, but in a quiet underlying manner, his potential for danger. After all, for all their wariness, the sect had walked into this place seeking to meet, they had looked around with their own eyes, and seen little, and yet a feast had been hidden all around. With the same ease, those acrobats armed with serving forks and platters could have carried crossbows and sabers. Of course nothing about the smells and sights of the table bore any hint of that subtext, it was pure temptation for tired travelers. A few paces past the head of the tables, stood Sammeln, watching his show and now resting two roaming eyes on a single man. With his hands clasped behind his back he carried an expectant pose waiting to be joined by his guest, so they might retire to a more private location. Rather than say as much, he instead announced “Please, eat, drink, rest. This has all been prepared for my guests and is my gift to you.” Once more, and despite the dampening cloths that blocked out sound and trapped in light, his voice reverberated through the chamber spreading itself inescapably through the far-from-empty hall. |
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