#I held her hand and ascended the astral plane | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mybg3notebook · 3 years ago

Text

Lore: Well-known Characters in Faerûn

Here I'm going to explain some interesting characters worth knowing in detail that some groups in the fandom keep saying are Gale's true identity.

Disclaimer Game Version: All these analyses were written up to the game version v4.1.104.3536 (Early access). As long as new content is added, and as long as I have free time for that, I will try to keep updating this information. Written in June 2021.

Additional disclaimers about meta-knowledge and interpretations in this (post)while disclaimers about Context and the popularisation and misuses of professional words in "Context, persuasion, and manipulation".

Azuth

He is the Patron of Wizards, his personal preference is toward wizardry rather than sorcery, and his philosophy fits better with the studious life of a wizard than the more haphazard practices of a sorcerer. Wizards invoke Azuth when they scribe scrolls, inscribe magic circles, attempt to memorise spells, and even when they cast spells. Often this acknowledgement comes in the form of silently forming Azuth's holy symbol, pointing the index finger of the left hand to the sky.For many wizards, the gesture is so commonplace in their lives that it becomes an unconscious habit. Azuth is represented at such sites as a hooded and bearded figure with his left hand held high, finger pointed up. Sometimes he is represented by merely the hand.

When he was a mortal, he was a wizard who showed prowess with spells and magical lore that attracted Mystryl’s attention, and after completing several quests to prove his worth, she named him Magister (old title in 1e and 2e, different to Chosen, related to a more bureaucratic role of Magic). With the new title, he taught magic to many people across Faerûn.

Azuth came into conflict with a minor southern deity: Savras the All-Seeing. Both were powerful spellcasters and Mystryl favoured both. They began a battle that lasted several years, using agents, magic traps, and personal spell-battles. Azuth managed to defeat the young deity and imprison him. With this victory Azuth ascended to godhood, became Mystryl's lover, and pledged to serve her.

During the Spellplague, Azuth fell to the Hells and Asmodeus consumed his divine spark to achieve godhood. It was thought that this had destroyed Azuth, but instead he ended up inhabiting Asmodeus' body together. Most of the time Asmodeus had control over the dormant Azuth. In 1486, Azuth managed to have a Cormyrian war wizard as a Chosen, and began to struggle with Asmodeus for dominion over their shared body. As a consequence, the hierarchy of the Nine Hells is jeopardized due to the unbalanced Asmodeus. After a while, The Chosen of Azuth sacrifices his life to be a vessel for the god and let him escape from the Hells. After the Second Sundering, Azuth returned to the faerunian pantheon.

Where is he in 1492?

Now, he has returned to the Faerunian pantheon, and considering Ao's ban, he can't be walking around Faerûn.

Can Gale be Azuth? I certainly can't see it. Azuth has been trapped in the Hells for most of Gale's life, returning to the pantheon recently. And we can't forget Ao's ban of direct contact: no god can have direct contact with mortals anymore, with the strange exception of Mystra (see the post about "Mystra and her Chosen ones" for more details). Besides, if Gale were to be Azuth's avatar, we are usually talking about characters over lvl 40.

The only link we can agree with Gale is that Azuth also has storm motif concepts in his design. Gale tends to explain with his pointing finger extended, but as it's said in the lore books, this is basically an unconscious common body language in most wizards. I cannot see any resemblance to make us infer “Gale is Azuth”.

What we can see by reading Azuth's story is why the Hells are so convoluted at this point. The blood war is unbalanced, since powerful figures such as Asmodeus had been having weak periods of leadership due to the inner fight with Azuth in his own body. For this detail alone, it is so important to give context to BG3 I considered worthy to mention.

Sources: 3e : Magic of Faerûn 5e: Sword Coast Adventurer's Guide, Novels: Fire in the Blood. The devil you Know

Myrkul

Myrkul had a cold, malignant intelligence, and spoke in a high whisper. He was always alert, never slept, and was never surprised. He was never known to lose his temper or be anything other than coldly amused when a mortal succeeded in avoiding his directives or chosen fates. His influence in Faerûn was imposed through fear, and he was a master of making mortals terrified of him through his words and deeds. He was the one deity that almost all human mortals could picture clearly.

As a mortal, Myrkul's full name and title is said to have been Myrkul Bey al-Kursi. He was a powerful adventuring necromancer who travelled with Bane and Bhaal in order to acquire divinity for themselves. In -375 DR, they slayed one of the Seven Lost Gods, gaining a bit of divine power. Using it to go further, they embarked to Jergal's realm with the intention to slay him as well.

However, Jergal��tired of his godhood—freely agreed to hand over his dominion of the underworld. As the three could not decide who among them would sit upon the throne of the dead, they left the decision to chance with a game. More details and stories of several deaths and coming backs can be briefly read in the wiki. It makes no sense to add them here since they provide nothing interesting related to Gale.

Most of Myrkul's “recent” story can be seen/read in the game Neverwinter Nights 2, the Mask of the Betrayer. The game explains how Myrkul created the Wall of the Faithless (non existent anymore in 5e and nobody knows how it was destroyed) where the souls of the faithless or those abandoned by their gods got stuck in eternal pain. The main goal of the Wall was to use all that energy to feed Myrkul. The main character of Neverwinter 2 can visit the agonising God in the Astral Plane and kill him or leave him in a slow death.

Myrkul, with Bane and Bhaal, tried to seize the Tablets of Fate from the overgod Ao and use them to rule over Faerûn and its gods. They failed and were slain during the Time of Troubles. Since then, a variety of contingency plans they had in place allowed them to be reborn afterwards.

A small group of followers across Faerûn kept Myrkul's worshipping alive despite the dire events of the Spellplague and the Second Sundering. In the 1400’s, he is considered to have returned with the three dead in a quasi-deity condition.

While the Sundering forced the other gods to withdraw their direct influence from the mortal world, the Dead Three remained behind in mortal form as quasi-divine beings. While their power has diminished, they remain a formidable trio and play a malevolent role in influencing events on Faerûn.

Where is he in 1492?

He is clearly somewhere in Faerûn, with Bhaal and Bane most probably (we have strong leads to assume that the Absolute is them, getting as many worshippers as they can to recover their deity status, since now they are only quasi-deities)

Can Gale be Myrkul? I honestly can't see anything that we can use to link him to Myrkul without making it look like an absurdity. The easiest argument to revoke that nonsense is that Gale clearly is not a quasi-deity.

A quasi-deity is immune to every attempt to tamper with their mind (which would nullify the tadpole effect, and would make Gale immune to any tadpole intrusion, which is not the case as we saw in the post of "The Tadpole"). A quasi-deity is also immune to sap its vitality, or to force it into a different form. It has a strong defence against magic and a limited defence against heat. Weapons not enchanted with magic of an epic scope could not hurt a quasi-deity without problems. These defences against magic, heat, and non-magical physical attacks grew stronger as a deity rose in rank. It is crystal clear that none of this applies to Gale, the squishy wizard of the group.

This comparison is nonsense, especially if we think that some people supported it because “Gale's robes have clasps in the shape of triangles”, which was considered an incomplete symbol of Myrkul. So... I really won't waste time in this comparison. I just did it because I wanted to offer a summary to compare Myrkul (the three dead more precisely) with The Absolute. This idea is very strong when we think that in 5e DM book is explaining that a quasi-deity can recover their godhood condition if they amassed a sufficiently high number of followers (which is what The Absolute is doing). But this should be done in another post related to the Absolute.

Source: 2e: Faith and pantheon, 5e: Descent to Avernus, Dungeon Master's guide

Karsus

Karsus was born in Netheril in -696 DR. He was able to cast his first spell at the age of two, and by the age of twenty-two created his own floating city. He also founded a magic school encouraging radical thinking to keep pushing magical discoveries. A seer warned Karsus that soon Mystryl would face the greatest challenge of her divine life, so worried about the consequences of this, Karsus created his spell Karsus' Avatar with the objective to protect the Netheril civilization. This spell would steal the power of a deity and transfer it to him, giving him divine power to protect his people from Mystryl's challenge and destroy the magical aberrations that had been attacking Netheril (phaerimms) for years. He was very aware that the feat could cost him his life, but he accepted it as a worthy sacrifice to protect his people as well as remain in the History as an iconic figure.

In -339 DR, Karsus chose Mystryl, the goddess of magic, as his target, feeling that she was the most powerful deity and the most appropriate choice for his purposes. However, this was a mistake. The responsibilities of the deity of magic are to regulate the flow of magic to and from all beings, spells, and magic items in the world. Unable to fulfil Mystryl's function with the Weave, Karsus causes a surge of magic and violent fluctuations.

In an attempt to save the Weave, Mystryl sacrificed herself to block Karsus's access to the Weave, causing all magic to cease for several minutes. The flying cities of Netheril (fuelled by magic) fell to the ground. The severing of the link also killed Karsus, who turned into stone and fell to the ground, seeing his entire civilisation being destroyed because of his actions. This is known as Karsus's Folly.

The stone form of Karsus eventually landed in a part of the High Forest, now called the Dire Wood. Karsus was never accepted as a petitioner by any god, nor did he go to the Fugue Plane when he died. Instead, his soul was bound to the Material Plane. Those with experience in pact magic could call up his vestige, where he appeared as a giant blood-red boulder, like the one found in the High Forest where his petrified form landed. Blood burbles up from the top of the stone, trickling down the side facing the summoner, pooling at the base. Karsus granted the summoner a boost in magical ability, though he also imparted some of the arrogance he was renowned for.

Where is he in 1492?

Even in death, Karsus' undying spirit persists in the chaotic magic of the Dire Wood. His essence is ensnared in a single point of time by the magic of the lich Wulgreth, and it manifests in three separate pieces. Each manifestation contains one portion of Karsus' tripartite spirit. It is believed that Karsus cannot depart from the Realms until his sundered spirit is reforged into one.

Karsus' mortal body survives as a tall butte of red stone embedded in the ground and eroded by the elements. This manifestation radiates heavy magic (read the post about the "Orb" for more details)

Karsus' gigantic, ever bleeding heart beats within the butte itself. This manifestation is essentially powerless, but it cannot be destroyed. Karsus' heart continuously radiates an enchantment similar to the sadness effect produced by the 4th level wizard spell Emotion.

The final third piece is inside an animated golem created by Wulgreth. This manifestation bleeds an ever-flowing stream of blood like liquid which mingles with the Heartblood River, giving it its characteristic colour.

So, can Gale be Karsus? Hardly. Karsus' spirit is not even complete. One could ask if Gale is a part of Karsus? I don't see it either: each of these parts are stuck in the different stones across the Dire Wood, and since it was a lich who made the binding I see little reason to suspect how a piece of Karsus' spirit stuck in the middle of the continent reached a baby in Waterdeep.

Sources: 2e: Magic of Faerun, Powers and Pantheons 3e: Lords of Darkness

Elminster

Elminster was born in 212 DR, son of a prince of Athalantar. His parents were killed by mages and at the age of 12 he became a brigand and thief. With a friend thief, Elminster committed many acts of thievery together and lived life fully, creating the gang the Velvet Hands after a number of adventures.

Elminster tried to desecrate a temple of Mystra as a gesture of vengeance for the goddess having not defended his parents when they were killed by mages. Mystra appeared before him, and despite Elminster's defiance, she offered him the power to take revenge for his dead parents. Elminster accepted, and Mystra turned him into a woman to see “the world with female eyes” and to strengthen his bond with magic before being a proper Chosen. This transformation also helped Elminster to pass unnoticed among his enemies. He spent a long time learning magic in this shape, taught by Mystra's avatar in disguise. When her disguise was uncovered, she and Elminster slept together and she offered him to become her Chosen. By that time, Elminster accepted any command from the Goddess, his defiance was completely gone.

In 241DR he travelled to the city of Cormanthor and continued his magical studies.

Somewhere around the mid–7th century DR, Elminster entered a tomb and became trapped there in stasis for roughly a century. He emerged from the dusty tomb in 759 DR. By that time Magic was unreliable (Mystra was possessing Elué's body to conceive her daughters). The god Azuth told him that he couldn't rely on Mystra or magic for aid. Soon he had to learn how to survive without magic. He later underwent further magical training under the tutelage of a wicked sorceress who sought to tempt him away from Mystra's path. During a fake ritual for Bane, she revealed herself to be the goddess Mystra herself, once again testing him.

In 767 DR, Elminster became a foster parent to three other of Mystra's Chosen: Laeral Silverhand, Storm Silverhand, and Dove Falconhand.

In 851 DR, Elminster mentored the newly-appointed Chosen of Mystra, Sammaster, in how to use his new powers.

During the Harpstar Wars in 1222 DR, Elminster defeated the Zulkir of Necromancy, Szass Tam, and earned himself (and the Harpers) the enmity of Thay.

In 1358 DR, just before the Time of Troubles, Mystra gained some foreknowledge and backed up her power into Midnight, the human wizard, so it would not be lost. During this time, Elminster, like most wizards who received his power from Mystra/the Weave, was left powerless once more.

In 1371 DR, the new Mystra stripped away many of Elminster's memories of her former incarnation's secrets. By the end of that year, he was called to Blackstaff Tower to discuss the phaerimm attack. The whole event ended up being related to a planificated attack from the Shadovars. Since shadovar were living shadow magic, and silver fire was raw magic, the collision between the two tore at the fabric of reality, creating a rift to the Nine Hells. Elminster realized that the only way to close the portal before legions of devils spilled forth into Toril was to close it from the other side. He did it, being trapped on the other side and at the expense of much of his magical strength.

Once in Hell, he was abducted and enslaved by an outcast archdevil known as Nergal, who wished to discover the secret of Mystra's silver fire. Elminster was subject to brutal tortures, surviving only because of his exceptional endurance and ability to heal himself with silver fire. Mystra tried to save him herself, but ended up sending several Chosen ones instead. Only The Simbul was successful in his rescue.

In 1373 DR, Elminster discovered a daughter he had never known, conceived against his will with a dragon thanks to Mystra's intervention.

Following the death of Mystra in 1385 DR and the collapse of the Weave during the Spellplague, Elminster was stripped of many of his abilities as one of the Chosen, though he still aged as slowly as he had for the previous millennium and was still quite powerful magically. However, every use of his magic drove him insane. When this happened, only Storm was able to bring his mind back, giving off her own essence to soothe Elminster's mind. Despite these setbacks, Elminster and Storm continued with their campaign to save Faerûn, battling evil and fixing the Weave where they could.

In 1479 DR, Elminster sought to gain access to artifacts known to contain the spirits of the Nine—objects powerful enough to permanently restore the Simbul's sanity.

During one of his excursions for these artefacts, Elminster's body was destroyed by Manshoon, who had secretly been peeling away the Old Mage's contingency spells over several years. However, Manshoon departed before he realized that Elminster had survived his body's destruction in a near-undead state. With the agreement of Amarune and the aid of Storm, Elminster's essence was placed in Amarune's body with the aid of a spell the ex-Chosen had discovered in a cache once belonging to Azuth. Later, thanks to the sacrifice of the Simbul, he regained his former body again and ruined for good Manshoon's claim to the throne of Suzail.

In 1487 DR, Elminster (with the help of the Srinshee, Alustriel, and Laeral Silverhand) stopped Shar as well as Larloch from becoming the new deity of magic. He killed Telamont Tanthul and let Thultanthar fall upon Myth Drannor. Along the way, Mystra was completely restored.

In 1491 DR, Elminster returned to the city of Waterdeep, aiding the newly appointed Open Lord of Waterdeep, Laeral Silverhand, to uncover the culprits behind a string of murders of Masked Lords.

Sincerely, there is a lot of content left outside this summary because Elminster’s material is a lot. A LOT.

Where is he in 1492?

The last time we know about Elminster’s whereabouts is during the book Dead Masks, a year before BG3. He has been working in Mystra’s name in Waterdeep when Hidden Lords have been assassinated. It’s very hard to conceive Gale as Elminster in disguise. Elminster has a different personality and a very obvious pattern of speech, sounding more like a mixture of a scholar and a farmer, and using expressions like Nay, aye, and so on. Elminster being abandoned by Mystra is also a strange concept because if there is something very clear from all the material we can read about his adventures is that Mystra loves him with a particular and exceptional love. He was the only Chosen that, when he was being tortured in the Hells, she attempted to save him by herself, risking her life (obviously, then she changed her mind and sent several Chosen ones that died in the process).

Also, if Gale were Elminster, he should sustain a spell of disguise constantly (many people know Elminster, an old man of white hair and beard), which is also very unlikely for a lvl1 wizard to do.

Source: 3e: Elminster: The Making of a Mage. The Temptation of Elminster. Dead Masks

Sammaster

He was born in 800 DR, probably in Sembia, the Dalelands, or the North. At age of 17, fascinated by the theory of the Arts and how magic works, Sammaster became a follower of Mystra. He was a gaunt man of poor health, full of eccentricities: he never remained in one place for too long, he skipped his meals and sleep in favour of learning, and it's suspected to have fathered a countless number of children.

Before being 40 y/o he acquired the skills of an archmage and he discovered, rediscovered, or improved numerous spells in the advanced theory of magic known as "metamagic". All this discovery of knowledge and magic (so favoured by Mystra as we can see in the post about "Mystra and her Chosen ones") granted him the attention of the Goddess, who appeared before him.

At his 50 y/o Sammaster saw his most fervent dream appear before his very eyes. He was both awestruck and smitten with passion as he fell to his knees and wept upon Mystra’s feet. Raising him to meet her gaze, Mystra responded to his unspoken question and swept him into her embrace. They spent a tenday together, and at the end of that period, Mystra asked him if he thought he was worthy and strong enough to carry a part of her divine power within him. Despite not knowing what she meant, Sammaster accepted anyway, becoming the first Chosen after she conceived her seven daughters. Mystra explained that she had chosen him for his development in metamagic but also because she had foreseen the death of an already Chosen one (Syluné) whose place she wanted immediately filled with Sammaster.

Sammaster was ordered to be in contact with Elminster to learn more about his new condition of Chosen. Sammaster and Elminster developed a tense situation mostly because Sammaster's obsessive love for the Goddess deepened while Elminster kept reminding him that her only consort was Azuth.

Dejected for the truth that he would never have a personal long-lasting relationship with Mystra, Sammaster focused on understanding the powers of the Chosen and the mysteries of the Lady in himself and in Toril. However, a seed of resentment started to grow.

In 855 Sammaster found a Zhentarin slave caravan resting in a camp. In it, he found three large cage carts full of peasants taken from the farmlands in the surrounding area. Enraged, Sammaster attacked the Zhentarin using his spells and Silver Fire, but in the process he killed many innocents he wanted to save. His mind snapped that day. Despite trying to convince himself that the Zhentarins were to blame, this episode was—without any doubt—the seminal event that irrevocably turned Sammaster down the path to madness and, eventually, evil.

Years later he started to develop his interest in necromancy in an attempt to return those innocents he had killed, trying to find a way to revive the dead. During this time his interest was focused on the undead, and forged relationships with some liches. How did Mystra allow this? At that time, Mystra was a much more neutral deity. Her primary interest was the use and development of magic; she cared little about how it was used or by whom. As long as Sammaster continued to advance the theories of magic and push forward its frontiers for all mortals, Mystra turned a blind eye to his necromancy interests.

In 861 DR Sammaster met Alustriel, Chosen of Mystra, and fell in love with her. His unbalanced mind seemed to finally find some peace and stability, but his obsession —at first focused on Mystra—now turned upon Alustriel, wanting to master her, to make her entirely his, and to make her world revolve around him. Disturbed with Sammaster's necromancy research and his increasing need for control over her, Alustriel broke up with him.

Afterwards, while deepening in his experiments with necromancy, Sammaster befriended Algashon Nathaire, a priest of Bane who had formerly been a mage. In the unstable Sammaster, Algashon saw the chance to create a formidable tyrant. Bane must also have seen the chance to rob one of his most powerful enemy’s Chosen of his last vestiges of sanity and perhaps his powers or even his life.

Presented as a friend, Algashon manipulated Sammaster into thinking that all his failures and problems were the fault of that uncaring goddess and her equally inconsiderate servants, her so-called "Chosen". Sammaster resisted this subtle indoctrination at first, only to be painfully reminded of the events at the slavers' camp (the Zhents' fault, of course), his uneasy relationship with Elminster, his failure to win the love of Mystra (Azuth's fault and Elminster's for pointing it out so hard-heartedly), and his failure to win Alustriel (her fault and that of her Goddess). As time went on, Sammaster argued against these superficial, easy excuses less and less, and Algashon's lies wove their way deeper into the unhappy and unstable mage's mind. The next step of Algashon was to steal the secrets of the power of the Chosen. To do that, he encouraged Sammaster to use his Chosen power at every opportunity.

Rather than risking their pawn's life (yet) by attempting to strip the silver fire from Sammaster outright, Bane and Algashon decided to try and arrange to steal another Chosen's silver fire: given her past with Sammaster, Algashon chose Alturiel. This way Sammster fought Alturiel, aiming silver fire against her. Losing the battle against a maniacal Sammaster, Alustriel called for help from Laeral Silverhand and Khelben Arunsun. The three of them won the combat against Sammaster.

Azuth presented himself on Mystra's behalf and removed Sammaster's Chosen condition. When the other Chosen left the place, Algashon helped Sammaster, affixing the immortality of the Chosen ones in his body despite having lost his powers. While he could be destroyed, Sammaster continued to remain ageless and to heal from wounds very quickly. However, as a side-effect of this spell, Sammaster lost his last vestige of sanity and morality that may have remained in his clouded mind.

In 887 DR Sammaster retranslated old texts of a prophecy, highlighting the importance of undead dragons and creating soon afterward his own Cult. In his insanity, he kept doing more necromancy research focused on turning dragons into draconlich to follow this prophecy. His first success in turning a dragon (Shargrailar) into an undead made his cult famous. In this way, Sammaster earned a powerful weapon with which threatened many across Faerun and obtained an enormous amount of money. Even the rich nobles paid tribute when the Cult threatened to send Shargrailar to burn their farmlands and villages to ash. Sammaster did not think to oppress the peasants for their coppers, but the noble powerful ones.

In 960 DR, his cult finally adopted the name “Cult of the Dragon”, even though “Cult of the Dracolich” could be more appropriate, even though Shargrailar still looked like a normal dragon. By that time the cult increased too much for Sammaster and Algoshon to control, so Sammaster wrote all his wisdom in a book called Tome of the Dragon that would turn into the core of the cult, helping them to spread Sammaster's ideas beyond their limitations.

The popularity of the cult was not missed by several groups. The Harpers tried to destroy it, but they failed. The Zhentarims are also against Sammaster's cult since their activities are limited with the constant threat of the Dragon Shargrailar. More groups were added to the cult's list of foes, but Sammaster ignored them or sent them a dragon to destroy them. Not merely mad now, Sammaster was becoming drunk with a level of power he had not felt since before he had been stripped of his powers as one of the Chosen. Algashor suggested that he keep a low profile in order to protect the cult, but his advice was ignored.

In 916 DR, The Harpers developed a plan to eliminate Sammaster and weaken the cult itself. The battle was brutal and Sammaster seemed to win by the end of it, commanding an army of undead and experimental creatures. Sammaster would have won had not Lathander sent a battle avatar, enraged by the undead abominations that Sammaster created. After an intense battle, Lathander incinerated Sammaster. However, Sammaster had planned ahead: he had sent his mind to a phylactery before being killed.

With the phylactery and a special book of the Tome of the Dragon, a loyal cultist called Zotulla had been ordered by Sammaster to create a new cell of the cult in the Northwest. However, Zotulla failed and died at the hands of an orc war party who discarded the phylactery and the book. Both items were lost for more than 300 years, until a shaman may have deciphered the instructions in the book and raised Sammaster as a lich.

In 1282 Sammaster rose as a lich and began to gather the remnants of his cult once more. Harpers and some countries began to plan to defend themselves from this danger again. In 1285 a group of adventuring paladins known as the Company of Twelve supported by the Harpers, attacked the lich and killed him at a great cost. However, neither the phylactery nor the book were found. The possibility for him to return is high.

In 1373DR Sammaster completed the transformation of the Dracorage Mythal. This was a Mythal created by elves around -25.000DR which had a maddening effect on dragons, making them lose their minds for several tendays. This effect used to be linked to the appearance of the comet King-Killer Star in the sky. When Sammaster transformed this mythal by binding his phylactery to it, its maddening effect was no longer constrained by the appearance of the comet but linked instead to his own life force. Only Dracoliches remained unaffected by Sammaster’s endless, ever-intensifying Dracorage effect. This fact forced wyrms to join his Cult and accept to be transformed into dracoliches or suffer permanent madness. By manipulating this effect, Sammaster tried to retake control over his Cult. However, a group of adventurers destroyed the mythal—thus Sammaster’s phylactery—and put an end to this effect.

Where is he in 1492?

So, is Gale Sammaster? Lore-wise, to destroy a lich for good you need to destroy their phylactery. This has been done in 1373DR, therefore, I hardly see any potential for Sammaster to raise again. And here is where any possible argument ends.

What Sammaster's story shows us is that Mystra's sudden abandonment is not uncommon once she gave them their Chosen powers. In the report of the Harpers that narrate Sammaster's life in the book Cult of the dragon (2e), there are some comments pointing out how Mystra, despite noticing Sammaster's madness, allowed him to follow his dark path. One may speculate that maybe Mystra uses the obsession that she may cause in some of her Chosen ones, in order to make them eager to explore beyond their limits so she can acquire knowledge or control of new magic.

Certainly, what Sammaster and Gale share in common is how they were favoured by Mystra, had a affair with her, and soon afterwards she stopped “whispering” in their ears. Their condition as Chosen had been kept intact, but their madness in one case, or their devotion in the other, made them go too far. Sammaster ended up being a toy of a priest of Bane, while Gale simply made the mistake of thinking himself capable of controlling an unknown magic to impress Mystra in order to have once more her attention on him. More than this is walking on the headcanon terrain since the game in EA can't provide more information.

Source book: Cult of the dragon (2e), Dragons of Faerun (3.5e)

Conclusion

The truth is that Gale is Kirby. He doesn't only eat artefacts but also Faerûn iconic characters as well (joke done by a reddit user)

In my personal interpretation, I hardly see Gale as the incarnation of anyone. First, it would be very, very lazy writing. Characters such as Sammaster, Elminster, or Azuth tend to be NPCs. We found some of them in games such as previous Baldur’s Gate games or Neverwinter nights.

But the main and strongest argument against secretly being any of these characters is that he is an origin character. All companions are potential players in their origins. Anyone who played DOS2 AND played an origin character would understand this: there is no plot twist of that magnitude in their personal backstories that would erase completely the essence and the personality of the character. All that sensitive information is previously stated.

All what we need to know about the origin char is basically said in the BG3 webpage. Those descriptions are the same ones found in the game, which changed after EA was released in Astarion’s and Gale’s case, showing—in my opinion—that Larian changed them a bit at the last stage of development. These descriptions spoil every secret that the characters have. This doesn’t mean their more complex background should not be part of a plot twist later in the game, but it would not have the impact of erasing completely the RPG characters you were playing for a while.

Every companion has a secret spoiled in their descriptions: Astarion, his vampire condition; Shadowheart, her Shar faith and he mission; Wyll, Mizora; Lae’zel, the tadpole (not for the group, but for her people); Gale, the “orb”. All these secrets are informed beforehand to the player for them to pick an Origin if they want to play it and make it their own. As companions, we learn these secrets early (act 1). This happens in act 1 of DOS2 too.

A player choosing an origin has to be informed of the character’s secrets and motivations at the moment they pick it. Otherwise, it would ruin their RPG experience, making the player unaware of their own character’s true nature. This doesn’t mean that deepening their backgrounds would not make us discover information we don’t know. My point is, it won't remove the character’s persona turning him into a character very well known in lore.

Gale, so far, seems to be a pretty fair standard wizard who had a young obsession over Mystra (quite common in terms of lore for those who stand before her), which brought him troubles and made him prone to mistakes (as, once more, we know it tends to happen in lore). The justification why he was Chosen is also clear from a lore point of view: we have a context post-Spellplague that made Gale's skills more than useful for Mystra. In my opinion, there is nothing else abysmally suspicious beyond these points, and if there are more secrets, it seems fair to think that not even Gale is aware of them.

This post was written in June2021. → For more Gale: Analysis Series Index

#gale of waterdeep #bg3 meta #bg3 early access #bg3 gale #azuth #myrkul #karsus #elminster #sammaster #lore #chosen of mystra #FR lore

25 notes · View notes

vannahfanfics · 5 years ago

Text

One for the Memories

Category: Friendship Fluff, Comedy, Mild Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Fairy Tail

Characters: Lucy Heartfilia, Gray Fullbuster, Juvia Lockser, and Lyon Vastia

Requested By: Ella (Ao3)

To be honest, Lucy was quite unsure what to think as she stood beside Gray and Juvia in the secluded office where the Master had requested to speak privately with them. It wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary if it were Natsu and Gray, maybe Erza too, considering how destructive the lot of them were and Lucy usually normally ended up being dragged into the scolding after their latest escapade, but she had to admit that the ice mage and the water mage were an odd pair. The two of them seemed not to have the same considerations; Juvia was purring with delight as she hung on the muscle of Gray’s upper arm and whispering sweet nothings with the occasional intense glare in Lucy’s direction, while the object of her affections was attempting to pry her cheek from his arm and grimacing in embarrassment. When the Master appeared with a slight cough, the attention of the three was captured, eager to learn what the old man had summoned them together for.

“A very nice opportunity for the guild has presented itself. The nationally-renowned Sorcerer Magazine has requested a photoshoot of the three of you that will be the main feature of the next issue,” he explained, and Lucy’s eyes widened in shock. Model-quality beauties like Mirajane were featured in the magazine quite often, but this was the first time Lucy had been afforded the opportunity; for a brief second she swelled with pride with the thought of It’s about time! before her heart slammed into her ribcage as it came to a screeching halt; Lucy had never modeled before, and that unnerved her. Juvia and Gray seemed unperturbed; Gray was his usual indifferent self, even deigning to groan about what a useless venture it was, while Juvia squealed and hearts beat in her eyes at the thought of being in a photoshoot with her darling ice mage. When she realized that Lucy was also to be featured though, she peered around his front with a low grumble.

“Stay away from my darling Gray, love rival.” Lucy had gotten quite used to Juvia’s accusations and her teeter-totter attitude; when it came down to it, Juvia would back her up in tough situations, and that’s all that mattered. Still, it was a bit tiring to constantly be accused of harboring feelings for the man when she had nothing of the sort.

“You don’t have to tell me twice, Juvia.”

“What?! How dare you insult Gray! Take it back!” Lucy just rolled her eyes as steam poured from the water-woman’s ears, and focused on what the hell she was going to do about the modeling shoot.

They met the photographer the next day at the train station. They had been informed that a member from another guild would be also part of the modeling shoot, and while Gray ran around with a lovestruck Juvia chasing him around in circles leaving little hearts in her wake, Lucy wondered who it could be. There were a number of heartthrobs, both male and female, in the guild world, many of whom she had met during the Grand Magic Games just a few weeks before. As her mind flew through the many possibilities, she did not notice the train arrive and the last member of their quartet arrive until the photographer gleefully shouted, “Cool, cool, now everyone is here!”

“What?!” Gray and the newly-arrived Lyon shouted in unison and pointed at each other with the color draining from their faces. Gray continued to stare with his mouth agape and eye twitching, while his rival in ice magic quickly regained his composure and sidled over to Juvia with ice swirling in his hand to form a fluttering dove.

“My darling Juvia, how lovely it is to see you again~”

“Ugh, I’m going to spend all day trapped in some twisted love triangle,” Lucy muttered under her breath as Juvia proceeded to jump behind Gray and peer at Lyon with waves of refusal rolling off her; Lyon deflated with a defeated sigh, the dove fluttering off as if it did not witness the crushing rejection before dissolving into sparkling ice. The photographer was blissfully unaware of the love being thrown around the train station; with another gleeful, “Cool, cool!” he jumped between the troop of wizards and announced that they would soon board the train for their photoshoot destination.

Once they were settled into their booth and trying to ignore the messy love tangle that was still unfolding around her, Lucy decided to approach the photographer with the questions that had been burning on her tongue all the while.

“Where will the photoshoot be held?”

“Oh, yes, yes! We’ll be visiting a town nearby called Crystalwake! It’s one of the most famous vacation spots in the entire country, known for its crystalline shores and crystal-clear waters!” he announced with almost too much enthusiasm. Lucy couldn’t help but mirror it, clasping her hands together with an excited squeal while her brown eyes sparkled like the diamond lights playing across the famous waters of the aforementioned beach town.

“Really?! Crystalwake? Oh, I’ve always wanted to go there!” she trilled as she squirmed excitedly in her seat, a scowl gradually deepening on both Gray and Juvia’s faces as her body rubbed up against his. She distinctly heard Gray mumble, “What’s the big deal?” while Lyon was once again trying to shoot his shot at Juvia and falling utterly short. The venue had been featured multiple times across many magazines in all sorts of contexts, and Lucy thought it was simply the perfect spot for a photoshoot because it was so incredibly romantic. Once that word sprouted in her brain, however, her blissful train of thought came to a screeching halt in its tracks and she looked at the photographer with acute confusion and a slightly perceptible level of fear. “Wait, what kind of photoshoot is this?”

“I am so glad you asked! Last issue, Sorcerer Magazine polled its readers concerning their favorite couples or potential couples within Fairy Tail with the caveat that they would be featured in a special photoshoot, and there were two that were overwhelmingly popular!” Instantly, Lucy was even more perplexed; people pinning Gray and Juvia as a couple wasn’t exactly surprising, but the fact that people could see her with Lyon, whom she had only had limited contact with, was quite exceptional. She would have thought for sure that she would be paired with Natsu, her actual team partner! “The top votes were Lucy and Gray, and Lyon and Juvia!” If her train of thought had come to a screeching halt before, it totally derailed this time. The entire train car became a symphony of their deranged screeches of disbelief; the mildly puzzled photographer just sat there blinking with the smile still on his lips as they all jumped to their feet and began screaming together in one frightening harmony.

“What? There’s no way that I can let my love rival be in a photoshoot with my Gray! Cancel it! And I want to know what crazy people even consider Lucy and Gray a couple!” Juvia shrieked, actually becoming fluid around the edges as she worked herself up to a near-boiling point.

“Juvia’s right! There must be some mistake! Me and Gray? I mean, who would think that up?” Lucy cried, mostly out of fear of retaliation if she expressed the fact that she was actually relieved to be paired with the ice mage that she actually knew.

“What the hell does that mean, Lucy?” Gray frowned and leaned down over her to peer into her face with his eyebrows narrowed accusingly. Lucy flushed red, both out of his proximity and the fact that she had upset him with her hasty comment.

“I-I mean, of course I like you, Gray-“

“Love rival!” Juvia shrieked, her curling blue hair nearly whipping about like snakes as she dissolved further into fluid form, and the Celestial wizard hurriedly whipped around to laugh nervously and wave her hands in a dismissive gesture.

“No, Juvia, that isn’t what I meant-“

“So you do want to do a photoshoot with me?” Gray asked with a devilish grin and his chin tilted up in a challenging gesture. Lucy deflated like a balloon as she took the assault on two sides. This is turning out to be a much bigger pain than I thought!

“I get to be in a photoshoot with Juvia! <3” Lyon howled as he clapped his hands giddily together, obviously the only one happy with the way that things had turned out. The photographer somehow managed to convince the fiery water wizard that the pairing would have to stay so as not to disappoint the readers, but it had been Gray quipping that Juvia needed to make her fans happy to finally get her to agree with the fact; still, the entire train ride to the beach, she was obviously seething with displeasure beside Lyon, who was giving off a bright aura of one who had achieved enlightenment and ascended to the astral plane.

Needless to say, Lucy’s head was hammering with headache by the time they stepped off the train.

Despite the twist of events, Lucy could not help but be cheered by the vacation spot’s atmosphere. The train station was open to the elements, allowing the salty breeze to waft in and kiss the soft skin of her bare arms and legs and leave and aftertaste on her lips as she strolled with the photoshoot party across the wooden planks that made up the boardwalk-like structure. The roof was simply a cloth pavilion made of thick fabric that flapped in the ever-present winds rolling off the waves she could hear crashing in the near distance. As they walked out from beneath the shade, the sun was there to greet her, offering her an embrace of its warm rays. Her headache was all but erased as she ran down the boardwalk to behold the famous shore, and as she leaned over the wooden railings with a hand to her eyes to take in the majesty of the beach, no magazine picture could have ever prepared her for its brilliance. It took her breath away.

The white sands stretched on in either direction for miles and miles, each individual grain sparkling like a shard of crystal as the sun’s bright rays struck its prism-like surface. The water was a shimmering cerulean, fading into sapphire as the depth increased towards the horizon; above the gently lapping waves, the sky was cloudless and brilliantly blue, the sun hovering at its highest point to bathe the beachgoers in its tanning streams. Gray and Lyon even seemed captivated by its majesty, and Juvia was able to forgo her ire to stand beside Lucy with her breath caught in her throat and her eyes drinking in every detail, watching the sailboats stream across the water leaving frothing wake behind. It’s so beautiful…

The photographer wasted no time in preparing them for the shoot. Soon after arriving, Lucy was standing with her toes in the surprisingly soft sand clad in a white bikini patterned with golden stars and a crescent moon curling across the left side of her chest, as an ode to her Celestial magic. Lyon and Gray were both in swim trunks that were inversions of each other, two-toned blues, while Juvia wore a stylish one-piece of misty blue-white with plunging sides filled in with tied strings and wave-like patterns trawling across the front. They were quite a tastefully clothed bunch, and though a large section of the beach had been partitioned off for the photoshoot, they were still attracting a large amount of attention from passersby. Lucy wanted to bask in the praise, maybe strike a suave pose or two, but her mind had returned to the fact that she had never done anything to the sort and worrying over that fact. She wanted to look beautiful, not like an awkward fool, after all. She silently fretted as the photographer began to give directions.

“All right! First, we’ll shoot some scenes in the water. We’ll start with Lucy and Gray. Will you two go about knee-deep in the water, please?”

“This is a pain,” Gray grunted as he accompanied Lucy out into the surf. She wasn’t sure why, because she was painfully used to seeing Gray half-naked running around in his boxers at this point, but her eyes navigated to his sculpted abs and his defined arm muscles; her words became a hard lump in her throat, preventing her from replying. It was undeniable that Gray was an eye-catching guy; how had she not noticed before now? He definitely noticed her lack of response and looked at her with a frown, making her jump violently and send water droplets skittering about as she reflexively slapped her hands against the water. “You’re acting weird.”

“Am not!” she refuted with red cheeks, which didn’t really make her argument all that strong. She blushed darker as he went to get in her face again, but thankfully that was interrupted by the photographer.

“Okay, cool, cool, that’s a good distance!” Lucy crossed her arms uncomfortably and turned away from Gray, but she didn’t want to necessarily look at the shore either because Juvia was currently trying to melt Lucy with her mere eyeballs. She focused instead at the water swirling around her upper calves; she could see straight through to the bottom like she was staring at liquid glass. Some seashells were half-buried in the sand around her, scallops and cats’ eyes and swirling drills and murexes; one of them was currently occupied by a little hermit crab who was doing his best to scuttle against the current. “A-ha! I’ve got it! Gray, take Lucy in your arms!”

“What?” Lucy gasped and looked at him incredulously, then screamed as her feet were suddenly swept out from under her. Within an instant she was being held securely in Gray’s arms; he looked blankly at the photographer.

“Like this?”

“Perfect! Cool, cool! Now, Lucy, put your arms around his neck.” Uncertainly, Lucy circled his neck with her arms, feeling highly uncomfortable with the entire thing. I probably look like an idiot… she lamented silently as she felt her face burning, but tried to convince herself it was the intensity of the sun’s rays. “Great! Now, try to seem like a loving couple, please~” he twittered like a gull as he flapped about on the shoreline, the shutter of his camera already clicking wildly. Gray turned his pointed gaze on her, a hint of a smile on his lips and all manner of sexy; Lucy was highly certain she looked like a fish gasping for breath. “Lucy, dear, please try to look a little more relaxed!”

“Easier said than done,” she huffed, not realizing she had done so out loud.

“Come on, Lucy, lighten up. You said you wanted to come to this place, right? Forget about the camera and just pretend we’re having fun,” he smiled at her. Lucy puffed out her cheeks defiantly at him, but honestly forgot the camera in that instant because she was too focused on refuting him.

“Come on, Gray! I’m not Mirajane! This stuff doesn’t just come naturally to me!”

“Why not? You’re as beautiful as Mirajane.” Lucy’s previously derailed train of thought shot off into the sky, breaking through the atmosphere at the words that had just so easily slipped from Gray’s lips. He was smirking up at her, but she could not tell if he was serious or teasing; all the same, she could not keep the blissful smile from gracing her own mouth.

“You mean that?” The photographer’s cheers of “Cool, cool!” were lost on her as she bathed in the sun and Gray’s compliment. He nodded, and she could feel his fingers twirling through her long tresses of blonde hair, which she had decided to let fly free for the modeling gig. Lucy’s smile grew bright enough to rival the sun above, and the hint of pink that graced her cheeks was now a tint of joy. “Thanks, Gray.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he suddenly grinned wildly, and her scream was swallowed by the seawater as he abruptly dunked her into the ocean. She landed on her butt against the bottom, startling the hermit crab and sending him feverishly scurrying out towards deeper, safer water; as the current swirled in her ears, she could faintly hear Gray’s raucous howls of laughter. She came up spitting the foul salt water and glaring at him through stinging red eyes. “You should have seen the look on your face!” he cackled while holding his belly.

“You jerk!” she shouted and jumped up to push him roughly in his chest. She successfully disbalanced him and sent him down in a similar fashion; water streamed through his dark hair as he came up coughing, but before he could launch another attack on her, she splashed him in the face and started scampering back to shore.

“Come back here! I’m not through with you!” he growled and yanked her back by the ankle. She belly-flopped into the surf with a surprised yelp, and was dragged across the bottom before she was pulled up so Gray could put her in a headlock and started roughly ruffling her hair.

“Ow! Ow! Gray!” she cried, but the laughter made its way into her voice. Her limbs flapped about wildly as she tried to escape his grasp, and managed to loosen it just enough to turn around in his grip to start beating him in the side of the head. In that effort, though, they became disbalanced together and she ended up on top of him, legs on either side of his waist with his hands wrapped around her waist, water streaming off their bodies like one hundred waterfalls.

“Perfect! Cool, cool! You two are naturals!” the photographer was screeching in near mania, the shutter clicking as fast as his finger would allow without falling off. Lucy was panting with exertion as she sat atop Gray, and when she finally realized what she was doing and how borderline erotic of a position she was in, she squeaked and hastily scrambled off him. It was too late, though; she had already earned Juvia’s wrath, and no sooner than the water mage had stomped into the surf Lucy was blasted with a torrent of swirling water that sent her screeching into the deep blue. She came up several yards out, her hair plastered to her face and soaked from head to toe.

“Take that, love rival!”

Sighing in resignation, Lucy paddled back to the point to where she could walk and began waded back through the surf. Gray came to the edge of the sandbar to help her, which the photographer eagerly recorded much to Juvia’s disappointment; as Lucy reached out to take his hand she stumbled in the thick, mud-like sand and instinctively looked down, and came upon the terrifying realization that by some bizarre incidence Gray had lost his shorts. She screamed and snapped her hands to her eyes, seeing far too much by the grace of the famous crystalline water, while Gray freaked out and began looking around for his swim trunks and a very unamused photographer informed him that this was not that kind of photoshoot. Juvia had fainted and Lyon was trying to revive her with far too much joy at having the unconscious woman in his arms.

After Gray found his shorts it was time for Juvia and Lyon’s shoot, which mainly consisted of Lyon chasing a very unwilling Juvia through the surf that ironically looked like they were playing a consensual game of tag. After several more rounds of general poses and acts, it came time for the final photoset of Gray and Lucy’s. By then her mind had eased and she was putting little thought into how she looked; Gray had done a good job of boosting her confidence. This time they were directed to a setup of props- two towels that matched their outfits beneath a shady umbrella, with all the beachgoing amenities scattered about. They took a few benign ones at first, like on of Lucy on her belly with her legs pulled up and ankles crossed while she read a book, one of Gray staring out at the ocean waves with a popsicle hanging out of his mouth, one that the photographer happened to catch by chance when it fell out of his mouth into his lap and made Lucy laugh like a maniac next to him. Gray was still shaking the icy-cold popsicle drops off his legs when the photographer informed them that it was time to resume the couple act- and that’s how Lucy ended up underneath Gray, nose-to-nose and trying not to freak out. She could hear Lyon struggling to hold Juvia back from killing the photographer, but the Lucy was fixated on the man looming over her.

“Well, this is cozy,” he joked effortlessly, like he was unperturbed.

“Gray, how can you be so calm about this? People are going to see these photos, you know.” Though she was fine with the actual modeling now, it was still a little weird to be featured as one half of an item.

“Yeah, and? People are gonna talk regardless. Might as well give ‘em something to talk about.” Lucy rolled her eyes; he was much to dense to get it, apparently. Lucy had no care to be the topic of gossip, at least not in the sense that she was Gray’s potential lover. Gray shifted above her, and she sat up a little to help him get comfortable. She went suddenly stiff as he accidentally caught his finger in the loop of her bikini and nearly pulled the thing off, and she hastily flopped back against the towel as the flimsy fabric barely covered her modesty. It was only at this point that Gray blushed and sheepishly smiled, which totally would make it look like they were about to be getting up to some very naughty things in the photograph. Lucy’s face was afire and her eyes wide, which didn’t help the image. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“Like hell you didn’t. You’re just teasing me at this point!” she accused. He ran a hand through his hair with a dour expression, and Lucy heard the shutter clicking frantically. We’re gonna be the talk of the whole country for years after this, she thought with a groan.

“Lucy, come on, I- oh shit!” As he was once again trying to shift on top of her, his hand slipped in the loose sand and he completely lost his leverage. The breath was knocked from Lucy’s body as he landed on top of her, which was a bad enough image in itself, but the divinities were seemingly having a ball at Lucy’s expense; Gray’s mouth landed right against hers; there was no mistaking the feeling of his lips. Worse, she had somehow grabbed the back of his head as he fell, making it look all the more convincing. Gray and I are-!

“Wow! You guys sure do take this seriously, going so far for the fans! This’ll be a great piece!” the photographer sighed dreamily. It was overtaken by Juvia’s deranged screeching.

“Love rival love rival love rival-!”

“Juvia, will you let me kiss you? Just for the shoot, of course,” Lyon crooned as he wiggled up to Juvia, but the water mage was in no mood to entertain; his wails were lost in the rushing of water as she sent him spiraling down the beach. He landed face-first and butt in the air, and when he came up he was spitting the fine grains out of his mouth and looking downright dejected. “Gray gets to kiss Lucy but I don’t get to kiss Juvia,” he moped as he tromped back over to them with slumped shoulders and the sand raining from his spiky hair. By this time, Gray and Lucy had sprung apart and placed several feet between them, both as red as tomatoes and wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands.

~~~~~~~~~~

Needless to say, that little photograph made the front page.

Lucy ducked out of the guild after a raucous round of teasing, clutching the copy of the magazine to her chest. Though it featured the embarrassing array of her and Gray’s spicy photos together, it was still her one and only modeling gig, and despite the context she was quite proud of it and wanted to hang onto a copy as a memento. Plus, looking back on it, she had had a lot of fun with Gray; he had so effortlessly calmed her nerves, and, antics aside, tromping around the beach with him had become a fond memory. Standing outside the guild with the roaring laughter and buzz of conversation fading into the background, she flipped open the magazine to the featurette, all the pictures of their own laughing faces under the blazing sun. While their relationship was not nearly of the nature their fans envisioned, Lucy definitely could admit that it was a good one.

“Bah, you had enough of those guys too?”

The Celestial wizard glanced up when the exact man in the photos beside her slipped out of the guild doors, looking irritated. He actually had his clothes on, with his hands stuffed into his overcoat pockets; his dark eyes were looking down at her, with that same intensity yet softness they always carried. “They were so busy passing it around and making fun of it, I didn’t even get to see the feature. You mind?” Lucy nodded and stepped closer to him, holding out the magazine so that they could both peruse the contents; though he was standing so close that their arms brushed, his breath puffing against her ear as he leaned down over her shoulder, Lucy felt nothing along the sort of nervousness or anxiety. Outside the context of the modeling shoot, gray really was just Gray; personal space really wasn’t a thing between them. That made her smile slightly. “What’s that grin for?”

“I was just thinking that we look pretty good together.”

“Oh, so you’ve finally fallen for my bewitching good looks, have you?” he smirked at her with his hand on his chin, and she laughed loudly. He joined her, and their shoulders shook in unison as they descended into a hysterical fit of snickers and giggles. By the time they settled down, Lucy was holding the magazine against her belly and tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. Gray exhaled deeply as he ran a hand through his midnight-colored hair, smiling in bemusement. “As much as a pain it was, I can’t say that I didn’t have fun. I definitely don’t wanna do it again, though, I’m tired of all the jokes.”

“Well, at least you have the reassurance that if you fail at being a wizard, you’ve got a modeling career ahead of you,” she grinned at him, and because the comment was unwarranted, he pinched her cheek and began tugging on it.

“You’re pretty cheeky tonight, aren’t you?”

“Ow! Gray! Cut it out, I’m sorry!” she whined while trying to swat his hand away. He sniffed in mock disdain before releasing her, and she tenderly rubbed her reddening skin while he grinned in that devilish way of his. “You’re right, though. I’m afraid Juvia’s gonna murder me in my sleep, and all the girls keep pestering me about going on a date with you!” she laughed lightly.

“Yeah, as if. We’ll both end up in a grave for that,” he snorted, then cast his gaze up at the night sky. The clouds were drifting lazily by the full moon and the stars twinkled like the light playing across the waves they had played in. “Still… I wouldn’t mind going back. To Crystalwake, I mean. Under normal circumstances.”

“Yeah. I had a good time. Just no pulling off my bikini top this time. You may like to lose your clothes, but I don’t.”

“Asshole,” he smirked and shoved her in the side of her head. Lucy grabbed her head, but was smiling; she knew that Gray’s gestures and teasing, though rough, were just his way of showing affection. He chortled too, then put his hands behind his head. “So, now I gotta walk you home, right? Isn’t that the rule after you kiss a girl?”

“Technically, you did it wrong. You’re supposed to kiss her on her doorstep,” Lucy quipped as she tucked the magazine into her bag and clasped her hands behind her back, whirling on her heel to skip a few paces down the cobblestoned street. “Still, I guess I’ll cut you some slack and let you walk me home, but don’t try anything funny, mister.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she heard him chuckle behind her, and his boots made light clicking noises as they struck the stone walking after her. Lucy hopped up onto the rock wall overlooking the harbor as she always did, her arms held out on either side of her for balance as she strode along, silhouetted by the starry night and the glittering ocean as Gray walked alongside her.

Crystalwake is beautiful, but I don’t need to go to some fancy beach to have fun with you. She kept that thought to herself, as Gray would likely make some smart-aleck jibe about it. Lucy didn’t know if what she had with Gray would one day develop into anything more or not; she wasn’t really in a state that wondered, either. She was content with their playful friendship for what it was, and that brought her enough joy in itself.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#fairy tail #lucy heartfilia #juvia lockser #lyon vastia #gray fullbuster #platonic graylu #graylu #friendship #comedy #fluff #oneshot #oneshots #oneshot collection #fanfic #fanfics #fanfiction

32 notes · View notes

dreamskept · 5 years ago

Note

lays across yuki's lap while reading one of prince's manga volumes. her fingers of one hand laced together with his. " when i was telling prince about my old high school it looked like he ascended to the astral plane. weird, right? "

he’s skimming through his phone, screen held over her head as yuki goes through whatever new political updates had transpired in the past half an hour. for a moment. areum’s half-tucked up on his chest, cheek pressed to his collarbone as she skimmed her manga. when she mentions his teammate’s name, he clicks his phone off and wiggles his fingers in her hand for a moment, thinking.

“that’s just what he does,” he half-shrugs, and the movement is obscured by areum on his chest. ( she doesn’t miss the option to tuck her face close into his neck, though, manga forgotten on her lap.��) “i wouldn’t think too much of it. it’s probably something in his manga.”

#arevmdawo #ic. ( yuki. )#main threads. ( yuki. )

5 notes · View notes

k-e-monroe · 6 years ago

Text

Sometimes Dead Is Better

Prompt Requested By James Delaney (Devil Delaney)

Disclaimer: I've taken certain liberties in this prompt regarding aspects of Native American culture and the character/storyline of James Delaney from the show Taboo. All liberties are minor and done so respectfully, or so I intended. With that said, I hope you enjoy the read.

Location: Knoxville, TN

East Tennessee, the land of good ole’ Rocky Top and southern hospitality, where the Appalachian mountains reign supreme along the terrain and whether the bustling city or a small, quaint town, there is a deep connection to both community and land, and a friendly air of welcome to any and all despite the need for privacy and a regard for the locals way of life. Kimber, born and bred in Knoxville, loved growing up in the area and even with New York being her home now, she would always have a special place in her heart for her hometown. Granted, it’s not often she is able to make trips back home. This particular trip had actually been one spur of the moment and put into motion by a series of peculiar if not fantastical events to transpire as of late. All of which revolving around herself and the arrival of a man named James Delaney, a man she should have NEVER crossed paths with, at least in the scheme of the natural order.

Time, however absolute and consistent despite constant change, surely had other plans that would throw both individuals for a loop--forever changing the course of their lives. One night whilst late at the office and after a particularly hard day’s work, something miraculous happened as she was indulging in a drink before getting back to work, and truth be told, if she hadn’t witnessed it with her own two keen and circumspect eyes, her logical and sane mind would have surely had her questioning her sanity at the moment. In a whirlwind of shadow and flash of light, time split and from out of the ether emerged a brusque man, a man overwhelmed by his bewilderment and suspicious of his current situation. The same could be said for Kimber at that time.

With a rough, sudden start no less than incredible AND magical, the two managed to figure things out as best they were able and work together for a common goal--well a seemingly common goal. Granted, with revelation came astounding new mysteries in regard to the universe. In all honesty, Kimber felt compelled to help James. It couldn’t have been easy on the mind or the spirit to be yanked from his era and thrust into a one far more modern. The adjustment was haphazard at best, but with possessing determination and strength of will, they started down a rocky, perilous path with one another, one rich with intrigue, the dark arts and just as much adventure as misadventure. In doing so, they managed to get to know one another on a personal level. When Kimber learned that James’ mother was actually Native American she found herself surprised. Like her, James is a ‘half-breed’.

It was in his struggles, ones pertaining to his past and possible future, Kimber thought it best she bring him to Tennessee to meet someone that has been influential in her life, her mentor in youth--a Cherokee Shaman named Cheveyo ‘Thunderheart’ Brolin. Cheveyo, a Shaman for a Cherokee tribe located on the outskirts of Knoxville, had been blessed with certain gifts in life, one being foresight and the other natural magic. He was one of the first people from the tribe, the tribe of her biological father, to get close to her and through their relationship, Kimber learned about who and what she was, who and what she is today. Cheveyo was also the one to teach her how to control and use her abilities properly with great skill. With James’ Native blood and his own ties to magic, there was no doubt in her mind that her former mentor and Shaman would be able to help James find the answers to the questions he couldn’t seem to stop asking himself.

It’s been 2 nights and 3 days since Kimber has returned to her hometown with her peculiar and time-displaced friend, James Delaney, and already, it has been interesting, to say the least. Cheveyo had been expecting them and in Cherokee tradition, welcomed them with open arms and a calm, willing desire to help. For the most part, the first few days had been quite uneventful, the introduction of James to her adoptive parents aside. As expected, they found him generally off-putting yet oddly charming and were shockingly impressed by his ‘old-fashioned’ customs and manner. Whatever the case, the introduction, and visit to follow would surely be remembered. With that out of the way, they returned to the tribe and Kimber gave him the proverbial tour as preparations were made for a ceremony in honor of the ancestors and spirits, one to take place before another, the one of James’ spirit walk--a metaphysical journey into the astral planes of the mind and soul.

Kimber was 16 when she went on her first spirit walk, the journey taking her to a barren place void of the corporeal, a place existing between the physical world and reality as it is known and an otherworldly realm considered the ‘afterlife’. The spirit of an ancestor greeted her, a woman much like herself, an empath from the tribe. She spoke in riddles and rhyme, a chorus of metaphors, and even though Kimber couldn’t discern it all that time, she would come to a place of enlightenment, a place of self-awareness that would aid her in efforts to control and utilize her empathic abilities and true nature. Over the years she has been on two other spirit walks, this one steadily approaching, her third and thru it, she will be James’ guide as the Shaman watches over them so they can transition with ease and without threat of the evils lurking in the cracks and crevices of this great, untamed and mystical yonder.

And So Shall It Begin…

Dusk, it blankets the sky and welcomes the night, a night providing a full moon and clear, sparkling stars across the jagged and ragged contours of good ole Rocky Top. A chill settles in the stillness of the air and the atmosphere becomes transcendent. After preparing their bodies per custom, lathered in oil whilst donning paint and the blood of a sacrifice, and woven linen, Kimber and James make their way to a clearing thru the woods--the vibrant gleam of a bonfire luring them in like a beacon. As they make their approach, they come to a large canvas and leather Tipi that from experience, Kimber knows is positioned over a pit of hot, steaming coals and burning sage. It is a welcomed sight, but one no less inspiring great admiration, respect, and trepidation. From inside the Tipi the Shaman, Cheveyo, chants prayers and praise to the ancestors and to the spirits in efforts to welcome the pair and provide them with a safe, informative journey. The chanting, hypnotic and primally rhythmic, calls to her--luring her into the unknown.

“James,” Kimber speaks, tone direct yet gentle. “Are you ready for this?” She asks him, genuinely curious out of concern for him. Spirit-walks aren’t for everyone and for those fractured in mind and spirit, the journey could be just as perilous and destructive as it can be profound and enlightening. “I am,” James says to her, his shrouded gaze locked on the Tipi and the steam pushing through the crack in the entrance flap. Kimber nods. “C’mon. He’s waiting.” With Kimber ushering James forward, she allows him to take the lead and to enter the Tipi first and to take a position around the pit directly across Cheveyo. Greeted by the warm and muggy atmosphere, she finds her place next to James, both sitting with their legs crossed and eyes locked on the Shaman as he prepares a ceremonial drink in two wooden bowls, a drink made of herbs and more importantly MESCALINE. All the while continuing his chants and praise. Once the drink is made, he turns to James and leans over across the pit to hand him the bowls. “Drink,” states Cheveyo before he turns his attention to Kimber and hands her the other. He nods, a silent understanding exchanged between the two.

They Partake…

Not long after ingesting the concoction of herbs and drug, a bitter drink hard to swallow and even harder to keep down if not for the herbs, they wait for it to take possession. Between chanting, Cheveyo eases them into this altered state of mind by courting them with calm, positive suggestion. It begins with an odd physical sensation, an electric tingle flush across the surface of the skin as the body, though heavy and sluggish, becomes light and loose in essence--offering a conflicting feeling of being anchored in place whilst taking flight. As this happens, a wave of nausea is sure to come, one provoked by the body rejecting the toxin in the drink. If compelled to vomit, one shouldn’t fight it, but if able to keep the liquid down, the individual must have the constitution to withstand a dreadful feeling of extreme sickness. Kimber, both held captive by the physical sensations and nausea, falls into a rhythmic pattern of deep breathing that undoubtedly eases the initial unpleasant effects.

Turning to James, she notes the paleness in his parlor and the sweat that has broken across his brow. There is no doubt, he is experiencing the initial wave. Reaching out to him, she places a delicate hand upon his shoulder and says, “Breathe… just breathe. Slow and deep.” Once certain he has heard her voice and taking her instruction, she pulls back to give him the space he will need to embrace the transition and ascend. As the sensations intensify, the drug courses through the system directly to the brain, enveloping it. The directive? To spark the synapses and jolt the mind’s eye. Kimber can feel it taking hold, opening her mind and offering her a new perspective--one needed for the success of the journey. When her pupils dilate and her view becomes a kaleidoscope of light and imagery, she knows she is on the cusp and steadily approaching the doorway into the astral. Once more, she languidly turns to look at James and with his eyes mirroring her own, wide and dilated, she knows he is beginning the climb toward the peak.

GLITCH.

The vision of James next to her fractures, seemingly splitting in the moment and all that surrounds them from the Tipi walls and the pit to the Shaman fall away. Even the darkness of the night fades away and they are greeted by daylight and a glowing, overcast sky. A storm is coming. They find themselves on a beach, one both rocky and sandy next to a large body of water and she realizes suddenly that she can smell the salt in the air with a distinct aroma of iron and coal wafting in on the breeze. This place is unfamiliar and downright foreign to Kimber, but as she glances at James, she notes an expression of recognition as his eyes take it all in. There is a moment, a brief yet revealing moment, she swears she sees a deeply conflicted look in his eyes and she knows without uncertainty they are in London and in his time period. “We’re here, aren’t we James?” Her voice echoes a soft, eerie tune that catches in the wind. “Yes,” James nods as he slowly gets to his feet. Kimber follows in suit, eyes never leaving him as he scours the beach in search of something. What that is, Kimber knows not.

GLITCH.

Kimber’s vision fractures once more and their surroundings jutt and shake violently in a flash of light and swirls of smoky darkness, but only for a few brief moments. As the world around them calms and the scene becomes clear, they are standing further down that very same rock and sand beach as before. Only this time they are not alone. It’s the sound of nearby splashing accompanied by a woman’s wails and the blood-curdling cries of a baby in distress that draws their attention. What is happening before them is a vivid vision of the past and one so shocking that it takes Kimber a moment to process. Waist deep in the water is a young Native American woman with a baby, a baby she has submerged beneath the cold surface of the water in an effort to drown. "Sometimes dead is better! Sometimes dead is better!" The woman screams repeatedly.

The horror of it prompts Kimber to act, her own naturally maternal instinct kicking in, but logic and experience stand to reason. THIS IS NOT REAL. Any attempt made on her part would be vain. They are just specters, phantoms from the past reflecting the memory of time. James does NOT realize this fact nor would he really at this point and as he moves forward swiftly--motivated to reach the woman and child, Kimber is just as quick to grab him by the arm to stop him. “THEY CAN’T HEAR YOU JAMES! THEY CAN’T SEE YOU,” she calls out loudly enough to grab his attention. Bewilderment and a plethora of other emotions etch his rough, weathered features and even though she isn’t sure who the woman and child are to James, she knows she is now looking into the deepest part of his subconscious to a moment time of great significance for him. “They're phantoms,” Kimber continues. “The past replaying events.” As soon as the words pass thru the softness of her pout, James turns to her, expression chilling to the marrow of Kimber’s bones. "She said… sometimes dead is better,” James speaks, repeating the woman’s screams as she drowns the child. The words and his delivery, just chilling as the look upon his face. It’s in that very moment, Kimber knows… she knows from the depths of her patchwork heart, James was that very baby and that woman his mother. It’s a revelation that leaves Kimber standing before him tongue-tied and speechless whilst gutted and heartbroken.

And this was James’ tragic start in life.

#KimberEliseMonroe #KimberMonroe #BuiltForSin #JamesDelaney #DevilDelaney

1 note · View note

untarnished-sterlingag · 7 years ago

Text

A quick writing exercise/character study of a recent DnD character I’m building.

Incense burned through the cave, wafting out of the mouth and drifting into the night air. The sharp scents settled on the entire campsite like fog. Even the stars had dimmed as if not to disturb the ritual. Dampened footsteps moved across the arid ground. A shaman crested the rock outcropping and nodded his head.

“We have prepared.” the shaman said.

Gennan opened his eyes, coming out of the meditative state. The aching in his limbs from being still was far from his mind. His breath fogged before him in the cool desert night.

“The Grand Maven--” whispered the shaman, “She spoke to you?”

Be not afraid, my marked one. I am with you always.

The soft whisper of a voice filtered into his ears again.

“I’m ready for the ritual.” Gennan said, voice scratchy from his days of fasting.

The shaman bowed his head again. “This way, Horizon Walker.”

The two walked down from the rocks jutting out of the sand. Their tribesmen stood gathered at the campfire, all somber and quiet. Gennan caught the eye of his second in command, Sorrel. Sorrel’s usually tightly bound hair was down in small braids that framed his face. Hand crafted clay beads snapped to the ends of the braids, runes carefully etched into the material. He slowly saluted Gennan. Sorrel’s hands soft despite their rigorous hunting touched the outside of his left wrist, each closed eye separately, his forehead, then over his heart.

May the Grand Maven empower us, guide us, and steady us.

The phrase nearly left Gennan’s lips, as second nature to them as breathing. He managed to swallow it down. Sorrel closed his eyes but he whispered the phrase to himself. The rest of the tribe followed suit, bowing their heads and whispering the prayer.

A small boy no older than five stood half behind his mother’s leg. Chandu was his name and although young, he was already beginning to learn the ways of the tribe. It was too early to tell if he would become a Walker and protect where the planes ran weak. Chandu was particularly taken with Gennan and looked up to him like an older brother. Gennan’s heart tightened knowing he was unable to give any sort of encouraging words to the boy.

Inner peace, inner strength, inner courage

Gennan was led away from the tribe out to a cluster of rocks that had formed into a small cave over the years. It was holy land for the Dawnmavens, considered to be the place where the Grand Maven first discovered the secrets of the planes and unlocked the power to protect the material world. Shamans had worked during the three days that Gennan fasted to prepare the space for the ritual. Glyphs were drawn into the packed dirt and filled with crushed plants whose petals were used to create dyes for cloth. Each step they took over the markings darkened the bottom of their feet with blue and left a trail of footprints behind them.

His mother and father stood waiting at the mouth of the cave. Gennan could only see a little ways inside the cave and barely saw anything by the light of the moon streaming in from the opening in the ceiling. His parents bowed to them as they approached.

“As your mind is now clear, so shall your body be.” The shaman said, moving past his parents and into the cave.

Gennan stared, throat tight, as his parents came forward with buckets of steaming water and handwoven cloths. His mother, Naivara, put her hand tenderly on his cheek.

“You will always be my boy, my Gennan.” She whispered.

Carefully she pulled his hair out of the bun he always kept it in. From a pouch on her hip she produced a beautiful rounded comb carved from seashell and with a handle made of mother-of-pearl. Humming a lullaby from Gennan’s youth, she brushed out the tangles in his hair.

His father, Tariq, smiled wide. He clapped Gennan’s shoulder roughly.

“Who would have thought our boy would become a Horizon Walker?”

His grip lessened and the heat of his father’s palm was easy to feel through Gennan’s shirt.

“Allow us the honor of passing on the strength of your ancestors.” Tariq said.

Gennan searched his father’s face, now wrinkled and beard glittered with greying hairs. A smile pulled at Gennan’s lips.

“I am humbled to receive it.” He said.

Carefully Gennan undressed. He remained only in a loincloth and Tariq folded his clothes. They were wrapped in a ribbon marked in ceremonial runes. As Tariq began to run a dampened cloth across Gennan’s skin, Naivara put Gennan’s hair back up into the bun. She secured it with the comb, fingers reverently running across it as she pulled away. It took her a moment to compose herself as she wiped at the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She too grabbed a cloth and dipped it in the bucket of blessed water and began to wipe the grime and dried sweat from Gennan.

Gennan felt the warmth of the water seep into his skin. It went bone deep and warmed him from the chilled night air. He felt a tingling in his limbs that started out from his fingers, like running your hand carefully across the small needles of a cactus. It caused a shiver to streak through him and his breathing shuddered. Naivara and Tariq finished washing him and each grabbed ornate cloths from the rim of a second bucket. The creme colored washcloths come out of the basin dripping dark liquid. Gennan recognized it as the same color dye as the runes on the walkway to the cave.

His parents squeezed the cloths out over Gennan’s shoulders. The trails the liquid took left patterns on his skin. The inky navy of night the ink originally took softened as it dried to the light blue of dawn breaking.

“From your past may you find courage.” Naivara whispered, dipping her finger into the dye.

“In the present may you find strength.” Tariq said, pulling his finger out of the basin.

They each dripped the excess dye from their hands into the sand around Gennan’s feet. They walked behind Gennan and took each other’s hand. Tariq pressed a gentle kiss to his wife’s forehead. She returned him a soft, watery smile. They held their unclasped hands up.

“May the Grand Maven bring you peace in the future.” They said together, pressing their hands to Gennan’s shoulder blades.

When they pulled their hands back, dark prints were on his skin. The shaman who led Gennan there now reappeared in the cave’s opening.

“The moon approaches her zenith, we must proceed.” He said.

Gennan began to turn and look at his parents. A voice shot through his head.

You are no longer needed there.

His body froze mid-movement and his limbs quaked with the effort of being held in place. He clenched his fists at his side as his body regained control of itself.

“I am with you always.” He ground out, willing his body to move.

Naivara choked out a sob behind him and Gennan’s stomach dropped. He felt the pinprick of pain as his nails dug into his palms. With heavy footsteps, he walked forward into the cave.

“Please, Grand Maven, do not—“ Naivara whispered. Tariq wrapped his arm tightly around her shoulders and drew her into him.

“Let his inheritance be a blessing.” She sobbed into Tariq’s chest.

Inside the cave, Gennan realized there was very little light. A few nearly burned out candles were scattered in the natural shelves within the cave. Six shamans representing the seven planes stood around a natural raised podium. More patterns and runic symbols were written into the ground around the podium and beneath their feet, although these were ancient remnants of ceremonies long before. A seventh shaman, the shaman of the Astral Planes, was seated in the back corner of the cave, surrounded by burning incense and dripping candles.

“Come,” spoke the shaman of the Material Plane, “receive the Grand Maven’s gift.”

Gennan stepped forward, bare feet tapping against the stone floor. He ascended the few steps to the dais and knelt in the center. Above him, moon light washed over him from the opening in the cave. He glanced up for a moment and spotted the Maven’s constellation twinkling in the dark night sky. Forcing a calm breath, Gennan faced forward once more.

A shaman representing the Astral Planes produced a small leather-covered drum from his robes. The Elemental Plane shamans also stood behind large drums covered in symbols from legends of the Dawnmavens. Great shifting and terrible beasts slain by brave Walkers. Honor and respect and strength of blood. The shaman of the Material Plane stood in front of Gennan while the shaman of the Ethereal Plane stood directly behind him.

A low, bass note sounded from the Astral Plane shaman. He hummed low in his throat, the pitch rising then lowering once more. At the end of the note, the Elemental Planes hit the center of their drums at once. Gennan felt the beat flow through the ground into his knees.

Again the Astral Plane shaman let out a throaty note, singing in a language Gennan didn’t understand. They were the words the the ancients and only those chosen by the Grand Maven could wield their power.

Two beats of the drums joined the shaman’s chanting. Gennan felt each beat of the drum as they thrummed into his bones. The Astral Plane shaman began a phrase that the Material Plane shaman repeated, the softer voice of the Ethereal plane echoing a fraction of a beat behind. Their voices overlapped and filled the cave’s negative space. Gennan felt hot and cold at the same time.

Soon the four Elemental Planes also joined in the chanting. It was the same phrase over and over again, each voice joining adding to the tumultuous energy of it. Chaos swirled around Gennan. He couldn’t focus—didn’t know where to look. What was he to focus on? There was something different to what each shaman was saying. The intonation was the same and their rhythm matched the incessant beat of the drums.

Gennan thrashed his head around and grit his teeth. His skin felt on fire yet sweat trickled all down his face and he felt it drip between his shoulder blades. He looked up to see the Elemental Plane shamans had stopped their drums, yet the sound still echoed through the cave. Growing louder and louder the sound filled the air and Gennan thought he would choke on the sound. The smoke of the incense clogged his nose and choked him. His eyes watered and his head throbbed in time with the beat.

The shamans continued their chanting, only the Astral Plane shaman keeping a beat on his small drum. The six shamans surrounding Gennan reached for small clay pots and overturned their contents before them. Hot wax poured to the ground and filled crevices in the stone, each shooting towards the dais Gennan was seated on. All different colors—white, green, blue, red, black, and grey—swirled in patterns that dizzied him. The drums and the smoke and the chanting it was too much for Gennan.

He looked at each shaman as they spoke, trying to hear what they were saying. Maybe if he could hear just one thing—

Before him the Material Plane spoke: Dea sit apua vos

To his right, the Water Elemental Plane chanted in a clear voice: Kia noho te Atva ki a koe

Over his right shoulder, the Earth Elemental Plane with a deep voice: Devee tumhaare saath ho

On his left in a whisper of a voice, the Air Elemental Plane: Mungu wa kike awe na wewe

Over his left shoulder, louder than the others the Fire Elemental Plane: Božica so vas

Unseen and behind him, the Ethereal Plane sang: Bandia a bheith leatsa

Gonna shook his head violently, feeling fear and desperation well up inside him. Tears poured from his eyes and he made to scream. The voices all swirled together in a cacophony of sound, the ever persistent bang of the Astral Plane’s drum marching on. Gennan pitched forward, his hands scraping on the stone of the dais. He closed his eyes and inhaled the incense as he opened his mouth to yell for it to stop—it’s a mistake, it’s not me, I’m not—

Abruptly it stopped. The chanting, the drum, the floor harsh against his knees—all of it gone. When he opened his eyes, he was alone in the dark. He looked down and saw his reflection staring up at him. Moving his hand before him, his fingers trailed through water. He pushed forward and his palm submerged fully, although he did not break the surface. The blue lines on his skin from the dye his parents left were now more pronounced. He traced them with his eyes all the way up his arm and to his shoulders.

A gentle sound behind him alerted him that he wasn’t alone. When he turned, the shaman of the Ethereal Plane stood in the darkness with him. She withdrew her hood and Gennan recognized her from one of the neighboring tribes to the east. In the moment, he couldn’t recall her name.

“Your strength will not be of the Material Plane, I see.” She said, her voice a softly echoing whisper. It faded in and out around them but was always loud enough Gennan could understand her.

“What do you mean?” He asked when he finally found his voice. He stood on shaky legs and turned fully towards her.

She stared at him for a moment, then frowned. “And it appears that you must first lose something before you can gain the Maven’s blessing.”

Gennan’s heart thudded hard in his chest. He pressed his palm over it to try and calm it but panic was welling up inside him again.

“She’s come to me in visions.” The shaman continued. “I didn’t realize they were yours.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head down. Gennan noticed the glint of tears down her cheeks.

He blinked and suddenly she was mere inches away from him. She reached out with surprising speed and grabbed onto his left wrist. In her other hand, she unfurled her fingers and her palm filled with dark liquid. When she looked back up at him, it was like her face was not her own.

The shaman still stood there and Gennan could recognize her features. But he had to really focus on her or she would begin to fade into the darkness. Once he thought he saw a different woman there. No older, but with hair so dark it melded into the blackness and eyes that told many stories.

“I am truly sorry that mine will be the last face you see.” She said, voice overlapping with someone else’s. She brought her hand up and smeared the dark liquid from of Gennan’s temples to the other, forcing him to close his eyes.

“Bandia a bheith leatsa.” She whispered, pressing her fingers to Gennan’s forehead.

The meaning came to him unwarranted and unbidden.

Goddess be with you

He opened his eyes as his body seized. His muscles tightened and he felt like he was being crushed. The drums and sounds continued around him. He only heard the shaman behind him singing in a voice that wasn’t hers. His body contorted and he curled back on himself, turning his face skyward. Only for a moment did he see the Grand Maven’s constellation before the light blinded him and a searing pain shot into him.

Then the light extinguished completely. The shamans were forced to shield their faces from the blast. When they looked once more upon Gennan, he was unconscious and slumped across the dais. Smoke drifted lazily off his body and disappeared upwards past the cave’s ceiling. The dye on his skin was now permanent and dark blue. Wind swept through the cave and put out the remaining candles and stubs of incense. The ritual had been completed.

The shaman of the Astral Plane stepped forward, the others parting for the elder. He knelt before the dais and sent up a prayer to the Grand Maven.

“Bring me strips of cloth.” He instructed. The shamans looked around but the shaman of the Ethereal Plane stepped forward. She pulled at her sleeve and ripped a large strip of cloth from it. As she held it out to the elder shaman, he noticed her hands shaking. He looked up at her with pity in his eyes.

“He is yours then?” He asked, a note of understanding in his eyes.

She nodded, allowing the tears to fall freely down her face.

He took the ripped fabric and thumbed over it. “You saw it all?”

“Everything.” She breathed.

The elder shaman nodded slowly. “He will need guidance. Especially with this—“

He carefully wrapped the cloth around Gennan’s head. He made sure to cover the empty smoldering holes with a delicate precision.

“Elder—“ the Water Elemental Plane shaman spoke, coming up behind them. “Have you ever seen an inheritance like this?”

“Not in all my years. Never something so,” his voice drifted off.

“Physical?” Offered the Earth Elemental Plane.

The Astral Plane shaman hummed an agreement.

“But for the Grand Maven to take a hunter’s eyes—“ cried the Fire Elemental Plane.

“We mustn’t question her plan.” Spoke the Material Plane. He pulled his hood back over his head. “We can’t question it.”

The shamans looked amongst each other then one by one put their hoods up. They draped ceremonial robes over Gennan as he laid limply in the elder shaman’s arms. The Ethereal Plane shaman carefully pulled some of the cloth over Gennan’s face. She hesitated and curled her fingers into a tight fist. Then like a cold shock, a voice went through her.

Be brave child. I am with him as I am with you.

The shaman took a slow breath through her nose. She steeled herself and joined the line of shamans as they made their way out of the cave, Gennan carried reverently at the front.

#headcanon #character development #character study #dnd 5e #chara: gennan meliamne #gennan #gennan meliamne #dnd character #character backstory #sarah writes things #oh boy oh boy #i just love him so much #my desert son #oc #own character

0 notes

sending-the-message · 7 years ago

Text

The Devil Has All The Best Music by JPscrawlings

If you follow the road south of a small rural town called Renford, you will find another, less busy track which is almost hidden completely behind overgrown foliage. Most people drive on by, oblivious to its existence, but if you follow it you will come upon two large houses relatively near to each other. One of them is in an agreeable state; yes, it still has its issues such as the weather-stripped paint and gnarled wood porch in desperate need of a varnish, but compared to the other it is palatial.

The other house is near a wreck in comparison, but not by choice. I always had plans in my mind as to how I wanted to finish it, how I wanted to restore it to its original prime, but now it sits there festering and abandoned. It pains me to think of it sat there alone in the woodland, but there is nothing between heaven or hell which could drag me back there.

I can still remember the first day I saw the advert for it. It was needing some love putting into it back then, and that was twelve years ago. I had always dreamed of finding a place which had fallen into disrepair and breathing new life into it, especially if the price was right. It was the polar opposite of the busy city I lived in, and I did not think a quiet life was too much to ask for.

I rang the phone number listed as soon as I returned from work. The house was part of a deceased estate. They had no living relatives and they had left no will requesting what be done with it. The mortgage company had seized the property and simply wanted it gone to reclaim their owed money. They snapped my hand off almost as much as I snapped at theirs.

I packed up my life in the city, cramming it all into the bed of a pick-up truck, and set out on the five hour drive to Renford. The journey could only be described as sheer joy. The noise and light of the city fell away, opening up to vast expanses of trees and fields as far as I could see. I passed through small towns and villages, stopping to take in the slower pace of life whenever I needed a rest. I felt myself glow with contentment, as if my soul had been refreshed.

It was late when I made the turning down that secluded lane. The truck bounced and rattled as the road became little more than two tyre-churned tracks amongst the lengths of grass, and I clenched my teeth as my skull rattled.

I saw the other house first. It passed to my right, and I could not help but be a nosy neighbour. Unfortunately, there was nothing to warn me of the terror that was to come, simply a single upstairs light on in what I assumed was the bedroom. I carried on another one hundred metres and stopped outside of new home.

I was used to night time in the city, not the full and foreboding rural darkness. Because of this, I grabbed only what I had to that first night and resolved to bring the rest in the next day. I can still remember how I led there that first night, unable to sleep due to the lack of any noise. There were no cars, no planes or trains, simply myself and the night.

Over the next few days I quickly became accustomed to the quiet, finding myself enjoying my isolation from the outside world more and more. When I eventually returned to work several days later, I found myself yearning to return to my little slice of paradise each day. Noise irritated me, and I developed a deep-seated hate of the heaving rumble of constant traffic.

The weekends were wonderful. I ensured that I had a full enough refrigerator and freezer to last the weekend, so I could enjoy my solitude as much as I could. I took long rambling walks in the woods, listened to music, and watched the world go by from my porch.

In the evenings, as twilight closed in, I would sit on the porch with a couple of beers and watch the darkness roll in. I sat there in the dark for as long as I could, enjoying the starlight above, but every night I noticed the light come on in the upstairs bedroom of the other house. I looked several times, but could never make anyone out, at least not directly. There were times when I swear I could see someone at the window out of the peripheral of my vision, a large and brutish shape, but when I looked towards it, it was gone.

I resolved to meet my neighbour as soon as I got the chance. On the weekends I would knock, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, but I never received an answer. It was a few days after I attempted to contact them that the damned music began.

The music was beautiful, it truly was. When I sat on the porch at night, the light would come on as usual, but now it was accompanied by the sound of a mournful piano. When I first heard it, I thought it was a recording as it was so perfect, but every night the music was subtlety different. Occasionally it was punctured by a frantic and passionate staccato, other times it flowed like silk. It went on for hours at a time, and always stopped when I retired to my bedroom.

I had decided to sleep in one Saturday when I heard a knock at the door. At first I thought it was my imagination, but then it went again. I always picked up my post from the office in town, so I knew it couldn't be that. I threw on some clothes and dashed downstairs.

I opened the door to find a frail old woman stood on my doorstep. There was something about her that set me on edge, but I could not put my finger on it. She leaned on a gnarled stick for support, her hair scraped back into a greasy grey bun, but it was her smile that tingled my spine. It was large and unnatural, her eyes holding the same maniacal flair.

'You like the music, do you?'

I was still trying to figure out why an old woman was stood on my doorstep. 'Music?'

She pointed back to the house just up the road. 'The music. I've seen you sitting out here at night. You like it?'

My brain put the pieces together and I came to the realisation that I was speaking to my neighbour. 'That's you? It's wonderful. Incredible, even.' I wiped my hand on my clothes and extended it towards her. 'I'm sorry, where are my manners, I'm Nathan.'

The old lady took my hand in an oddly strong grip, her ice cold fingers wrapping around mine. 'Agnes,' she replied. 'Perhaps you'll want to come listen sometime?'

The thought of seeing such a performance overrode any discomfort that the old lady gave me. I nodded. 'Very much so.'

'How about tonight?'

I shrugged. It was not as if I had anything else on. 'I'd like that.'

Her odd grin returned. 'Come around at eight.' She turned and started down the steps of my porch, then turned and looked at me one last time. 'Make sure you're on time.'

I spent the rest of the day thinking about the night's performance. The see such beauty flowing first hand set my heart fluttering, and I kept myself as busy as possible to ensure that eight came as quick as possible.

I knocked the door at exactly eight. I waited in the dark for a moment until a light came on and the door groaned open. Agnes was stood holding the door, although the odd smile and fire her eyes held earlier had dissipated. Her hand shook on the door handle, and the smile she attempted to give me was a weary one. The smell of various oils and lavender wafted out to greet me, although there was a burnt undertone lingering in the air.

'Are you okay?' I asked. 'If tonight's not good-'

'No, no, come in, come in,' she replied, waving me in and towards the staircase. 'Go on up. I'll be there in a moment. I dare say I'm a little slower than you.'

I followed her instruction and ascended the staircase, the old boards creaking underneath my feet no matter how softly I trod. The light was now on in one of the rooms, the room which I saw illuminated every night. I stepped in and looked around.

In the centre of the room was an old grand piano, the original black paint chipped in places and showing the raw wood beneath. The rest of the room was populated by numerous tables, each holding troves of crystals and geodes; they were sprawled out in an indistinct but definite patterns, and some were even hung from the light fittings, sending odd angles of light bouncing through the room. Two leather armchairs sat snugly together.

Agnes struggled into the room and shut the door. Her tired eyes seemed to regain an element of power, and a faint smile toyed with her lips.

‘This is impressive,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen something like this before.’

All she did was give a feeble nod before hobbling towards the piano and taking a seat at the stool. She motioned to the armchairs. ‘Take a seat.’

I followed her words and sank deep into the old creaking chair. She turned to look at me, the angles of light seeming to change her facial features as they bounced around the room.

‘The way I play can be...unorthodox,’ she said. ‘It requires deep concentration, almost like falling into a trance. You like the music you can hear from your house, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you imagine it sounding even more wonderful? The tones deeper, the playing so elegant that the fingers whisper across the keys. An experience for the soul. Can you imagine it?’

It was a struggle to imagine something even more divine than what I had already heard. ‘I can’t, but I would love to hear it.’

Agnes took a deep breath, her form appearing to warp slightly. ‘You can hear it. I can show you how. But, you need to open your mind, your soul, even.’

I leaned forward in the chair, the leather groaning beneath me. ‘Show me.’

The odd grin returned to the old woman’s face. ‘Then you’ll need to come with me, far beyond this mortal shell.’ She noticed my raised eyebrow and laughed. ‘I said you’d need an open mind.’

‘But how? That’s impossible.’ ‘Astral projection,’ Agnes replied. ‘Detaching our souls from their anchors and letting them soar far, far away.’

Something raised the hairs on the back of my neck, my heart rate increasing. Normally I wouldn’t subscribe to such nonsense thinking, but the authority in her voice almost made me believe her. ‘Is it safe? Can we come back?’

‘Of course,’ she said with a wide grin. ‘I go and come back every night, what makes you think it would be different this time?’

‘Okay.’

‘Great, then we’ll being.’

Agnes turned her back to me and lowered her head. ‘Follow my voice,’ she said, her tone suddenly low and deep. ‘Keep your breathing steady and shut your eyes.’

I closed my eyes and listened to her voice. The steady rhythm of my breathing quickly matched her own wheezing pace. She whispered words well below my hearing range; all I could make out was the guttural mumbling, nothing distinct in the words themselves.

Something changed within me. It was a subtle, a minor flicker somewhere in my mind, but I felt myself suddenly lighter. A bleak terror filled me at the thought of actually leaving my physical body behind. I forced my eyes open, my weight coming back to me. I broke the rhythmic breathing, my lungs clamouring for lost breath.

I looked around to see Agnes still slumped with her head forward, mumbling and churning unknown words in her mouth. The crystals which were hung from the ceiling danced slightly, the erratic light forming strange but wonderful images before my eyes, but it was not enough to chase away the dread which flowed through me.

My fight or flight response kicked in, and it chose flight. I sprang from the chair and made my way to the door, before descending the old stairs, checking over my shoulder for something every few steps. I dashed out into the dark night and back towards my house. I took one last glance at the now normal light in what I thought was the bedroom window, and ducked into the safety of my own house.

Several days passed and I did not see Agnes, nor did she come see me. In hindsight I thought that perhaps I had overreacted, maybe I had bought too deeply into her words and my brain played tricks with me. Either way, I felt awkward about the whole thing, and hoped to see her to apologise, however whenever I knocked there was no answer.

The nightly music returned, but it was not the same as before. It was no longer the wonderful workings of a musical genius, but sounded like someone hammering the keys with inelegant fingers. It was awful, and its incessant nightly noise soon began to dampen my enjoyment of my evenings on my porch.

I came home from work one evening to find a note pushed under my door. I picked it up and read it. It was from Agnes.

I’m sorry if there was any misunderstanding the other night. I finished my playing and you were gone. I am frightfully sorry if I offended you in anyway, or made you feel uncomfortable, but thank you for giving an old lonely woman the company for an evening. My door is always open for you, my dear, please don’t be a stranger.

The letter tugged at my heartstrings. Perhaps I had overreacted the other night? My memories of what occurred that night now seemed vague, almost as if looking through a haze. I resolved to set the issue straight once I had eaten and cleaned up.

My knock at her door was answered relatively quickly. Agnes opened the door, looking tired once more. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said. ‘I was hoping you would pop by after reading my note.’

‘I must apologise for the other night,’ I said. I dredged a lie from my thoughts. ‘I wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to disturb your wonderful playing.’

Agnes gave a lacking smile. ‘Oh, you are sweet. Perhaps I could play for you again some night, when you’re feeling up to it?’

‘I was hoping to hear it tonight, if you are free, of course.’

‘That’s music to my ears,’ Agnes said, a spark returning to her old eyes. She nodded towards the stairs. ‘Guests first.’

I climbed the stairs once more. Instead of looking forward to the performance this time, all I could think of was the cacophony I had been subjected to for the last few nights. I made an agreement with myself that I would humour her this time, and stay to the bitter end.

The room was how I remembered it, and soon I was settled down in the old leather chair, with Agnes seated at the piano. She closed her eyes once more, and I followed suit; if it could make the music any more bearable than I thought it would be at least worth a try.

Once again my breathing fell into rhythm with the old woman’s. Her odd guttural chanting came back, and I could hear the crystals around the light fittings clink gently against one another as they danced once more.

That subtle loss of weight came sooner than I expected. My heart raced once more, but this time I resolved to hold myself to the experience. It was unnerving at first, and I can only describe the feeling as if you were ascending, even though I knew it was impossible.

It was in this moment that I realised that I could hear nothing. The more I listened to the silence, the odder it became. I could no longer hear the clink of crystals, the guttural words, or even my own heavy breaths. My senses tensed, ears pining for the sound of ...something.

I heard it. It was distant, but I recognised it. The sweet tinkle of piano keys. I smiled to myself as I heard it. Even from such a distance, I realised that this playing was nothing like I had heard for the last few nights. It was serene, a glistening dance across the ivories. I had to see the old woman play it, or I would not believe it. I opened my eyes.

They did not open.

A moment of panic jarred me. I could not even sense the air entering and leaving my lungs, but I knew somewhere I gasped for breath. I moved my hands in front of my eyes, and realised I could see them. A moment of relief set in. I was not blind, but wherever I was was so gloomy that I could barely see my hands in front of me.

I reached a hand out, finding it resting on what I could only imagine was some textured wallpaper. I stepped towards it, and could see it now. I followed the wall and eventually it led me to a door. I fumbled with the handle for a moment, before it creaked open before me.

It was lighter here, though not much. An old lamp, covered in cobwebs, sat in the corner of the room, casting a muted light across what looked to be an old pub. It was untouched, with empty stools lining the bar, and tables and chairs pristine in condition. I stepped inside and heard the music become louder.

‘Agnes?’ I called. There was no response. ‘Anyone?’ Silence. I walked across the bar and looked out of the windows. The darkness returned outside of the panes, although I could swear there was a constant swarm of movement just beyond my perception. Something moved behind me.

I turned around to see a line of people queuing across the bar, towards a door on the other side. They were inanimate, and dressed in old-fashioned clothing. All of them were caught as if frozen in time; some were trapped in mid-conversation, others swigged from a drink, and others checked tickets which they held.

‘Hello?’ I said, but was answered with only more silence. The piano grew louder now, as if it was just beyond the doors which they queued towards. I followed the line, and on closer inspection the door held a number of posters.

Agnes Deyton - live for tonight only!

I pressed a hand to the door and twisted the handle. To my surprise it opened. I was expecting someone to stop me, or for the door to be locked, but instead the door opened up into a large dance hall. Rows of seats were set out in preparation for the event, but it was not that which gathered my attention.

I could see her, hunched over the piano. The glorious, soaring notes which she played became dampened, the melancholic sound which I first heard when I moved into my house returning. I crept closer, not wanting to disturb her playing, going further into the hall.

I passed rows of empty seats, following the empty centre towards the stage. I looked back, as if expecting the crowd to have followed me, but they were still frozen where they stood. As I went to take a seat in the front row, I noticed something. Agnes was crying. Her frame was hunched forward, not from concentration, but as if a large mass was crushing down upon her.

A round of applause startled me. I looked around to see the seats now filled; the queue from outside now sat in their seats, each of their faces glued to Agnes. Their faces held no emotion, simply offering blank stares towards the stage. I looked towards Agnes as the music swelled once more.

This time, I could see something else. Agnes was still hunched over the piano, tears rolling through the cracks in her face, but I could see the weight which fell on her. It was large, standing over her, but it was hard to make out in the dim light. It was mostly shadow, but most definitely not that of a man.

Its height was so much that it had to crouch itself, its legs bent at odd angles, and arms of brutish size holding Agnes tight within its grasp. A bolt of black terror ran down my spine as I realised that this thing was not a creature which had seen the light of day.

My mind whirled with fear. All I could think of was to run, but as I stood I saw its form move, its head turning slowly towards me. It was now that I could make out a feature. It was the same unnatural smile which had held Agnes’ face the first time she knocked at my door. From that bleak smile came the strange and twisted words which Agnes had muttered, but now they were terrifyingly loud.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I sprinted past the rows of inanimate people, and out into the bar. I glanced back, the sight that greeted me threatening to turn my legs to jelly beneath me.

All of the occupants of the theatre were turned in their seats, their hollow stares locked onto me, although that was the least of my worries. The large creature had descended from the stage and was making its way through the central aisle towards me, its black mass blocking out any view I had of Agnes.

There was only one way I could go. I dashed towards the entrance to the pub, rattling the door handle but finding it locked. My heart thundered in my chest. I wrenched a chair from the floor and did the only thing my panicking my could think of, I threw it firmly towards the window.

The glass shattered, with it coming screams of anguish. I didn’t dare look back towards the hall as I threw myself out of it.

I was falling. I had expected to land painfully on the ground outside, expecting glass to be buried in my hands and knees, but that was not the case. The wind whistled past me as I fell, carrying the howls of the mad and the pained.

I fell for what felt like a lifetime. My mind raced and my heart threatened to break through my ribcage. I was falling somewhere, but where I did not know.

I came to a sudden halt. A solid weight connected with me. I thrashed around in the darkness momentarily, trying to find a way to get further from that beast, but something connected. I opened my eyes, light bursting in to greet them. I was back in the room with Agnes.

The crystals banged loudly against each other as whirled around violently. The shards of light which danced across the room now painted terrifying and indescribable images. I launched myself out of the chair and towards Agnes.

‘Agnes?’ I cried out, shaking her firmly. ‘Agnes?’

She continued playing, her fingers hammering the keys with unnatural force. She did not weep here; instead her lips were wrenched into that insane smile. Her eyes rolled towards me, but her mouth simply continued to spout the strange words I had heard in the hall.

There was nothing else I could do. I bolted down the stairs, hearing banging and bellowing from the room as I ran. I made the short distance to my car quicker than I ever thought possible and started the engine.

My headlights illuminated the road ahead. Whatever was going on in that room, it was not good. Flashes and blasts of multicoloured light beamed out into the night, brighter than the moon which was high in the sky. A dark shadow appeared at the window, its dark and baleful glare almost freezing me in fear.

I slammed on the accelerator and flew down the track. The truck bounced and groaned in protest, but there was no way my foot would respond. I drove the rest of the night. I didn’t know where, and frankly I didn’t care. It’s been twelve years since I’ve seen my house. I still wake up with regular night terrors, and I can only find sleep with the light on. Everything I once owned was in that house, but now I can only imagine that it’s all left to rot. Sometimes I still think about Agnes, about what must have happened to her to lead such a harrowing existence, but there is no help for a soul like that.

All I can hope is that the road has overgrown to the point of invisibility, and that she, and whatever that thing was, is sealed away for as long as her body continues to live.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

0 notes

gurukula-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Chapter Three: Separation

www.adevinecomedy.com

We organized a memorial service for Swami Kurt to be held at 4:00 PM at the next day at the ashram in the Hollywood Hills. Everyone who mattered was there. Their names escape me now, but they made up the core of the tribe that had been my family for the prior two years. There must have been at least thirty people in that house, all of whom had been very dear to me.

Mari and I arrived together in my Lexus coupe. We had to park down the hill and hike up, because there was nowhere to park at the ashram. I feared Mari would not have the strength for the hike after her nine-day sunlight fast, but she was just fine. I think it’s because she was cheating and stealing the cat’s food, but I had no proof.

I held the urn with the ashes as I went through the gate that had just the other day been cordoned off with yellow police tape. Now, a blonde woman in white robes was humming to guests as they entered.

“Oh, you brought him,” the woman said.

“Yes,” I answered. “We took care of everything.”

Mari added, “We’ll need to be reimbursed. Who do we see about that?”

She waved us away. “Oh go see Geena. She’ll take care of you.”

“There’s no rush,” I said as we moved to the roof where the alter was to place the ashes.

We walked through groups of crying initiates. “What do we do now?” they wept. “We did not deserve you.” Each touched the box of ashes as we passed.

They all wore white, while Mari and I were dressed in black. It being a funeral and all.

At the foot of the stairway to the roof, I did see Geena, a red-haired woman who handled much of the ashram’s financial affairs.

“Oh, you brought him,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Did he transform into pure light?”

“No.”

“Really? I thought he would.”

“Yea, me too. We had to cremate him. It was a whole long thing. No one else from the ashram was there.”

“Yea, we can’t talk to cops right now. Thanks for doing this!”

“Definitely!” I should have probed further into that comment, but I chose to move on. “I was told to come to you about reimbursement.”

“Yes, of course! Was it much?”

“Just over three thousand dollars in total.”

“Three thousand dollars?! Yikes. Well, we’ll get that to you.”

“No rush. What matters is that you do all get to finally say your goodbyes to our guru.”

I ascended to the roof with Mari and the ashes. The alter had been set on a small table, about three feet tall, with flowers on either side. The pillows were set up around it for his disciples to sit during the service.

I delicately placed the ashes in the center and bowed.

“It’s almost over now,” Mari whispered to me as we took our seats on an oversized cushion. “How do you feel?”

“I feel empty, like I haven’t learned everything I was supposed to learn from him.”

“This is a deep blow that we will all feel for many years.”

A young man in a white robe blew a yak’s horn and we knew it was time to start the ceremony. One by one, our guru’s initiates approached the alter and touched the blessed urn.

“Did he turn into a being of light?” one asked.

“No.”

They sat around us in their new matching white robes, and I had to wonder where they had the time and the money to buy white robes. The man was not dead three days, and I could barely put my grieving aside long enough to drive to the coroner’s and back. Here, they had gone shopping. I figured it was because they had kept with their sunlight diet and were working off divine strength, whereas I had to disobey my guru to serve my guru. The irony stung like a lit stick of incense.

“I’m so sorry,” a young bronze man said to me. “I was just bringing the incense to the alter.”

“I didn’t even notice,” I answered.

As the incense smoke wafted into my nostrils while the familiar sound of Indian ragas playing over the Bluetooth speakers, I longed for our beloved guru to emerge from somewhere and say that it was all a test, to see how we would perform, that he was not dead, that it would all continue as before, that our ashram would live forever.

A man in white robes did emerge from the house. He had brown hair with a thick graying beard and golden brown skin. “A transformation?” I whispered.

The man walked between us and stood at the alter facing us.

“Let us pray,” he said.

I touched my thumb to my middle finger and rested my hands on my knees, the position of prayer.

“Ohm dally dally shiva yuuuum,” the man said.

“Ohm dally dally shiva yuuuum,” we repeated in unison.

“Ohm dally dally shiva yuuuuum Swami Kurt.”

“Ohm dally dally shiva yuuuuum, Swami Kurt.”

He continued. “It means peace be unto us. Peace be unto Swami Kurt.” It actually doesn’t mean anything at all, just gibberish. That was an embarrassing trip to India, but it is a story for another day. “For today, we say goodbye to our beloved guru and send him into the eternal light.”

“Is he in our ashram?” Mari whispered to me.

“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” I answered.

The mysterious stranger continued. “Swami Kurt was called to the Brahmin, because his role had ended here on the mortal plane. I am told he transformed into pure light at the morgue and left us with these lotus flowers.”

The bronze crowd applauded.

“He didn’t,” I tried to tell them. “We had to get him cremated. I actually need you to pay me back.”

“For like Moses, Swami Kurt has brought us as far as he could, and now it is up to us to move on to new heights, to new insights under a new guru. I am honored that Swami Kurt selected me to be that new guru.”

The bronze crowd applauded. “We love you,” they said. “Praise our new guru.”

The man continued, “I am Swami Jeff, and I love you all.”

I raised my hand. “Excuse me, when did Swami Kurt choose you? Was I here?”

“In a vision. We were on the astral plane together,” he answered. “He placed his finger on my third eye and told me that I would lead his flock after him.”

The bronze crowd applauded.

“Don’t take my word for it. He told his follower Geena.” He motioned to the woman with the red hair that was supposed to reimburse me for this whole memorial/coronation.

“He told you that?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

“When?!”

“Two nights ago.”

“So like after he was dead?”

“Yea. It was in a dream.”

“Oh I see.” I respect dreams. If Swami Jeff had in fact come to her unannounced in a dream, then it was the will of the Brahma. “Just out of curiosity, was that before or after you met Jeff?”

“After.”

“Oh, after,” I answered. Then, I turned to this new guru. “And how did you get here?”

“I ubered.”

“So on the astral plane, Swami Kurt gave you this address which you told to your Uber driver who punched it into his GPS? On the astral plane?”

“Yes. It was divine,” he replied.

“In my dream, Swami Kurt told me that some people who were not ready to advance would be left behind,” Geena said.

“Fuck you, Geena, you Goddamn bitch! Am I the only one who doesn’t buy this?” I surveyed the crowd, and they all bought it.

Mari called from the alter. “She does not believe!”

WTF, Mari? I thought. “You had the dream because this guy contacted you and put the idea into your head.”

“Swami Jeff has proven himself,” she replied. “He has the gift of trance, just like Swami Kurt! We have traveled the astral plane together.”

“Swami Kurt didn’t have the gift of trance,” I answered. “He had the hook-up for good acid.”

“Her vibration is too low,” someone screamed. “We cannot advance with her among us!”

“You must leave,” the false Swami said.

“You guys still owe me for the cremation!” I shouted. “Which no one else bothered to come to or even answer your phones, BTW.”

“She’s only after money!” someone shouted.

“I am not!”

“Yes you are,” impressionable Geena said. “You’ve mentioned it three times already.”

“You’re the person who handles money! You know I am generous with the ashram. Swami Kurt was your guru; you should want to share in his funeral expenses.”

“I think your love of money is keeping you trapped in your vibration,” the false Swami said. “I don’t think you can stay here in your current frequency.”

Mari stood next to this… man. “Look at his beard. Could a man with a beard be a false guru?”

WTF, Mari?

“Jesus had a beard!” a bronze idiot screamed out. “You get out of here!”

“You smooth-faced nonbeliever!” another shouted.

“Leave us,” the crowd chanted. “Leave us. Leave us, Leave us—”

“Oh, I’m leaving. I can’t believe I dropped so much acid with you assholes.”

I stormed out of that former ashram, now a house of fraud. I wore a pair of Givenchy lamb’s leather sandals with a Greek inspired strap. They were my favorite at the time, but they did nothing for my feet along the hot concrete and dry rock that makes up the Hollywood Hills.

“Sage, wait up!” a familiar voice called.

I turned back. It was Mari!

I had tears in my eyes, and my face was beet red. “What the fuck, Mari? How could you leave me out to dry out back there?”

“What? Are you mad, you idiot? I stole the ashes and like two vials of acid!” She lifted her robe to reveal the urn. “I put the acid in my bra. Let’s see his power of trance now. Can you believe that shit?”

She wrapped her arm around me and let me lean on her as we walked down the hill together. “Why are you weak? I thought you were back on food.”

“Because everyone hates me, and my shoes are stupid.”

“They’re all a bunch of idiots. Half of them will be on heroin or in porn by the end of the year anyway, especially under that false prophet. Rest here. I can support you now. I’ve been on this new diet, very dense, high protein kind of thing.”

She drove my coupe to the Pacific Ocean, to Malibu at Point Dume. It’s a pleasant ride along winding hills. The point itself a large brown cliff edge with seals and pelicans. There was a slight wind blowing west.

“Goodbye, Swami Kurt,” I wept. “We loved you so.”

“Thank you for all you taught us. Thank you for being you.”

We dumped the ashes over the cliff, and they drifted to a seal covered rock off-shore. The tranquil creatures didn’t even notice the ashes were not sunlight.

We watched the ocean in silence for a few more minutes until I finally spoke. “I can’t help but thinking I haven’t finished my lessons with him yet.”

“Maybe you haven’t,” my dearest friend answered.

#satire #religion #cult #guru #novel #literature #new literature #hollywood #losangeles #new age #spirituality #spiritual #comedy #writing #amwriting

0 notes