talmondspeaker-blog

[talmondspeaker-blog]

A Sadly Chance Meeting

Quentin tensed as the woman lowered her dark hood, and then cried out softly when he saw her face; the sound was as though he’d quickly had the breath crushed out of him by a mountain. It was Jane. Shit.

He hadn’t realized, had never even considered, but of course, of course she would be here in the past. Quentin had been so focused on getting here, so focused on the Beast and his own pain that it had never even occurred to him. He had been stupid, again.

“Quentin? Quentin Coldwater? You’re here early, it’s still years too soon. What are you-” she cut off as Quentin stumbled and fell to his knees. “Quentin what’s happening!? Is he here? Were you attacked? This is too soon!” Her eyes darted in every direction, scanning each shuddering tree for the Intruder.

Quentin still couldn’t respond; he was shocked through. He’d already been through the worst pain, this wasn’t fair. He had thought he was already in as much pain as he would ever be, and still this was somehow worse. The universe had one last curtain to pull back. His brain was freezing, and he couldn’t think. Every second counted now, there was no time to waste, and still; he couldn’t… think. Images kept flashing through his mind. The world tilting up and down, the two of them moving with each other and the ship, the light draping lazily over her shoulders.

“You-” he began, doing his best to hold back tears. “You’re here.” He was being stupid. Again. Still.

“Of course I am, but what are you doing here? Quentin, this isn’t right, this is too early!”

It took all his willpower and every bit of borrowed strength he had just to stand, and keep his face from showing the fractures beneath. He could remember this part only vaguely from last time- it had been a blur up to the very last, but he thought he knew the script well enough. It had been years later in the past, in the last loop, but it should still apply.

“So- so you’re the Watcherwoman?” He wasn’t very convincingly calm, but he held together at least. “I mean, of course you are. But why? You terrified Jane as a kid. I mean, you.”

After a brief hesitation, she smiled wryly. “Yes, I was a proper villain for myself, always pushing myself to be my best. In fact, I always grew up to be just a little bit stronger than that Watcherwoman.”

Quentin understood now, he’d been through a time loop with memory intact, and the mechanics made as much sense now as any other formula did. But he remembered his line.

“That hurts my brain..”

“Well, out with it then. Why are you here early?”

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts. The sound of ocean waves, beating on the side of a boat. Sunbeams spearing the darkness below, ephemeral motes drifting lazily through. Too long, too long, too long, his brain still couldn’t focus with the knife of ice twisting somewhere in his chest.

“You have the watch still. I need to get to my present, your future. The past was the only way to get here this time.”

“This time?” Shit. ”How did you…” She trailed off. “I suppose Fogg told you, then. It never goes as well when he tells you.”

It was a fair guess, even if it was off. He’d been told twenty seven out of his forty times through, but as far as he knew, he died all forty. It was funny, she was brilliant, but that seemed like an obviously backwards thought, and he almost laughed aloud. He was losing his damn mind.

“There’s not a lot of time. I’ve prepared this time, I have a plan. But I don’t know how long I can be ready. This is our last chance, please.” Quentin felt the pain of talking with her normally and of being this close building up. Quentin wasn’t likely to last another minute, and time DID still count.

“What do you mean, last chance?”

Shit. Shit Shit Shit. He couldn’t handle this. He was still being stupid, still too slow, still not thinking. What was he going to ruin, interfering with the past from a second time loop?

“Quentin? Did something happen to the watch? To me?” She was frowning now, her brows furrowed in a look he knew well. That had been the last look he’d seen on her face, a look of consternation that said she was unhappy with the way the world was going, and was about to become unpleasant about it. He had almost forgotten her haughty offense at things that weren’t what she considered right. Quentin considered lying, but as soon as he thought of it, he remembered how Jane had been acting when they had met this most recent loop. And he also remembered the look she got when she thought nobody was looking and dropped her affectations. It was clear then: Jane knew, in her future, his past. Shit. Had that always been how it had happened? Or had him screwing up now changed her future, his past? He closed his eyes. No, the time was the same. Nothing was changing yet, that much was clear. So he had already had this conversation; he had already observed the effect, he couldn’t NOT cause it now, but still… Shit.

“I’m so sorry Jane, but… You died.”

“Oh,” she said simply. Her face was more relaxed, her posture somewhat diminished; the affect of Jane was dropped for a moment “Did I at least die doing something, ah, terribly brave?”

Waves that had no business being so cheerful, whispering constantly with the wind. They came sloping in smoothly, building up heads of boiling cream foam, rearing up for a moment, mint green and paper-thin in the sunlight, before breaking in a long line with a sound like tearing fabric.

Quentin swallowed hard, keeping tears back by sheer force of will. He couldn’t let himself get dragged back down into the memory, there was no time for a spiral. Even still, his voice wavered now. “You did. You were so brave… You-” he stopped to clear his throat again. “You saved my life from the Beast. And you gave me a secret that’s going to help us win this time.”

Jane didn’t break down. She’d never been one for anything so dull as crying, it wasn’t the right kind of dramatic. She blinked, she sniffed, but her eyes stayed clear even as Quentin’s watered. After a deep but quick breath, she said tersely, “Ah, well. I'll expect a good temple in my honor. Be sure I get a proper statue, yes? Good likeness, mind the chin.”

Quentin let out a choked laugh. It was so like her, vanity coupled with just a little self deprecation. It was so like the ALIVE her, not the dead memory Quentin carried around with him. Her face here was animated, warm and whole. For what had seemed like a century, her face had been only cold. Cold empty eyes, cold blue skin, just below the offensively cheerful water.

“I’m so sorry, Jane. I’m so so sorry that I couldn’t save you.”

“Oh Quentin,” she said softly, “it was never your job to protect me. My little volunteer tomato.”

In for a penny…

“It was this time,” he said

"What do you mean?"

“I remembered, this time.”

She paused for a moment. Was she actually speechless? He could hardly blame her.

“How could you have, Quentin? No cast on you, but you’ve never been masterful enough for that, not in a single loop so far.”

He might have been offended, but after having looked back at his previous self, in his newfound power, it was true; he had been laughable, really. Volunteer tomato indeed.

“The Beast made a mistake this time,” Quentin whispered. He no longer had the control to maintain a normal voice. “He didn’t wait for us at the end, like usual. He came in, a day early. He killed... everyone. He was so angry with me, after I wouldn’t give you up, he tore Brakebills apart, and made me watch as he spent nearly a week... EATING them. My friends, my classmates, even the teachers couldn’t stop him, he just kept bringing them before me and...”

Quentin shuddered. It was still almost unreal, that week. Bound by some magic he hadn’t even seen coming at the time, sustained by it as well as held to. The horror hadn’t faded, that was what he had kept thinking. There was no happy place to go to, no escape, and no numbing; he just kept on being horrified as he watched everyone he knew eaten alive. He’d even found Julia, somehow.

“Then how did you escape?” asked Jane. She was only barely shocked by this. Quentin figured that after thirty nine times watching so many people die, one more couldn’t be much worse.

“I didn’t,” Quentin mumbled. “He killed me too, at the end. But I hadn’t realized at the time that he’d given me power as well. I should have, I might have broken free and stopped him then, but... everyone was dead. How could I have remembered the power I’d gained when my father died? And compared to that... Well, you started the time loop over again, the next day you said. And when you did, I remembered. All that pain, and it gave me enough strength to remember the previous loop. So I went and found you immediately, before Brakebills even brought us in for testing. I remembered all of that as well, and with my new strength, magic is nothing now. So we worked together, discussed everything, and it was... such a relief, for us to have somebody to share in that looped time. Everyone else, it took such efforts to guide the thread of time through that tiny needle hole, line it all up. You know how exhausting it is to be alone, manipulating your friends.”

She was frowning deeply now, her eyes actually cast in shadow from her brows. “So what happened, then?”

He couldn't help it; he let out a quiet sob and said, "We fell in love, Jane."

[talmondspeaker-blog]

Quick layout stencil

Evening 1 - group introduced, Captain Jane with leadership magic, Apollo the spellwriter and spellmaker, Garland the pyromancer, Divina the physical magician, Monroe the Magics powerhouse. Garland is particularly outgoing, but very friendly. Says something to offend somebody, immediately followed by sincere apology. We get small but close look at Garland/Divina love, and not that Garland is the smiling laughing glue that binds the group together, and even gets standoffish Monroe to loosen up and smile. Good vibes.” Make sure to note the total effectiveness of Prismatic Shells, along with the drawbacks, for important event later to have rules already set.

Night 1 - relatively short chapter, we watch through prismatic shells as monsters and strange animals approach and investigate the shells, even moving over them, but never so much as scraping the shells. The party is solidly safe in bubbles that no magic or power can move in or out of.

Morning 2 - Bright day of adventuring, until they run into another human. Strange man in tattered cloak, identifies himself as “Nobody of consequence, but you may call me Keeper.” He tells them that he speaks as doorman for the Dweller in the Abyss, and warns them to keep the Sea’s peace while in the Abyss. The party is attempting to get to the bottom of the Verdant Abyss and destroy That Which Dwells, a supernatural creature said to rule over the Verdant Sea, and also to be the source of the Tree Monsters that grew in number and ferocity by the year, terrorizing Canopy Sailors. However, they believe that only careful secrecy can allow them to get the drop on the Abyss Dweller, and Garland takes swift action to kill the man, lest he report to his master.

Evening 2 - The party repeats much the same process as the first evening. Everyone has been quiet since the killing of the Keeper, but nobody doubts that it is necessary. After a rousing story, and more than a bit of theatrics, Garland manages to get the team’s spirits up, and they prepare for bed.. Divina is notably quiet, which the crew only notes after the Prismatic Shells are up for the night. They suddenly notice that Divina is standing there with them in the main encampment, even though they can see that inside the second Prismatic Shell, Garland is standing next to Divina there as well. They have only a second of confused silence -shocked, stunned silence that happens mid-group laughter- before the Divina in the second Shell with Garland vanishes. Then they see the Keeper standing outside the bubble, glaring at Garland. He acts deranged, laughing oddly and saying in overly affected casual tones that he is not so easily killed, nor the rules of the Abyss so easily flaunted. Shock turns to cold fear as the Keeper walks up and picks his way through the Prismatic Shell containing Garland. Apollo tries to undo his Shell so that they can help, but has made it too well. Monroe begins taking theirs apart, but much slower than the Keeper, who steps through only a few seconds later. Fear turns to horror as the Keeper attacks Garland, immune to his fire, inflicting horrific wounds and tortures upon him. The group can only look on in horror, and by the time Monroe has broken through the sheild, Garland is in pieces, gruesomely dead. The Keeper vanishes in a quick gust of leaves, and they are unable to do any more. They then notice that they are in the Verdant Abyss, a seemingly endless forest that slopes down and down into the black depths in the deepest parts of the Sea. They notice that they are there, and it is dark. And their shields have both just been broken.

[talmondspeaker-blog]

EveningOne

“So the prismatic shells will keep whatever this verdant hell can throw at us at night,” said Apollo, their Spellwriter. “I’ll set up a second one for Divina and Garland to share, no need to be subjected to that.”

Garland laughed heartily, and Divina gave Apollo a sly grin, saying, “Are you sure you don’t want to join us Lo? I wouldn’t mind…”

Apollo blushed a bright red, and Garland laughed even louder. He walked over to where Apollo was tracing lines into the dirt, and punched him in the shoulder, not quite as gently as he perhaps meant to. “I don’t know, Apollo . You’re cute enough for sure, but I’m not confident you could keep up!”

Apollo pushed him off and kept writing, and though Garland fell over laughing, rather theatrically, he was careful to not actually land on the runes. Garland was good like that; he’d give you shit all day long, but as just as quick to be thoughtful.

Captain Jane was rolling her eyes as she set up some detection wards for anything extra-interesting. She had Command Magic, and was of course the leader of their little expedition.

Once he picked himself up- his audience wasn’t attentive enough to put any more effort into theatrics- Garland joined Divina in setting up dinner. Being the group’s Fire Specialist (after all, one can hardly descend into the Verdant Abyss without a well-trained pyromancer) he had a good sized cookfire going easily. Divina, Telekinesis Corps, Class the First, and very good cook, was cutting up the animals she’d hunted throughout the day.

“You’re sure that these will hold up to the Tree Monsters?” Garland asked, glancing skeptically at the two full circles of runes Apollo had just finished. “I’ve seen some mighty big and interesting baddies, and that’s just near the surface. No tellin’ what we’ll find further in.”

“They’re inpenatrable,” Apollo said irritably. “I designed them to be fixed spaces around us, nothing magic or otherwise will get through them. I’ve got Jorgensen’s Null Zone written in the second line, see? And around the edges, Bernstig’s Unbreakable. A few other spells mixed in here and there, for the timer, the fixed point... Oh, and I went ahead an wove a Miranda’s Counterspell Immunity, just in case we run into any other magicians down here.”

“There aren’t going to be any magicians down here, Apollo,” came the voice of Monroe. He strode into the clearing they were camped in with so much ease, you’d never think he was on the edge of the Abyss. “There’s never been a human what’s gone into the Verdant that’s ever walked out alive. And even the dead are gone, eaten body and soul by Tree Monsters, or worse. Make sure that spell is for the Sea’s darkness, instead of wasting time with extra nonsense. Also, try spacing out these two lines-” a quick pointed finger at two different signs near the south edge of the circle “-with Path’s Sunrise Stop. Could be a better sign to set the timer to, instead of it being a self-reliant core. More consistent that way, it’ll just end when the sun comes up. Popper’s Twenty-six in the fourth Harmonic should do just fine.”

Monroe was not, in any ways that could be agreed upon, a likable person. He may have been surely the most powerful magician any of them had known, or at the very least the most powerful that were also willing to venture into the Abyss. He functioned more like a battery than anything else, to the group. He could cast spells that would kill most people, even most small groups of people, without breaking a sweat, and he could see past the outer, simpler layer of magics, down into the truly complex and divine inner workings and nuances. It made him incredibly useful when inventing new spells, or working on modifying old ones, or really anything to do with difficult magic. He was even a math genius, processing calculations in his head that took Apallo hours to do by hand. He was the driving force behind the mission, because the group knew that if they lived to reach the bottom of the Sea, it would likely be Monroe to defeat That Which Dwells. The problem? Monroe is fully aware of all of this. Nobody loves Monroe like Monroe does. In fact many would say that only Monroe loves Monroe.

[talmondspeaker-blog]

A Purple Day

Prudence walks down the last hallway, takes a slow, deep breath, and knocks on the door before walking in. The house is hers, really, but Prudence is always sure to knock anyways; it is Step Two on her list to see how she and her sister will spend the day each morning after work. “Come in.” That’s never a good sign. She quickly reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a die marked with symbols instead of numbers. A quick shake and stop leaves a scratched-in wave facing upwards. Another unlucky pick. This wont be good. She opens the door, steps in quickly, and it shuts itself again. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior, before she sees the other person in the room. Well, physically in the room, yes, but the one sitting on the couch isn’t really here, Prudence knows. The dark curtains are pulled closed, the entire room draped with midnight blue sheets on the walls to help mute.

“What day is it, dear?” she asks, padding over to stand above the girl on the couch. Reliance is not so much sitting on the couch as she is collapsed onto it. She almost definitely finished the walls, and then made it as close as she could before crumpling like a towel dropped. The reply is less spoken than sighed. “It is tomorrow... Today was supposed to be something, wasn’t it? We’re sorry.... The day after this one should make a better today for you, but today is... tomorrow. You can leave, if you want. We’d understand.“

This, Prudence ignores. “Is it more of a purple day, or a blue day, love?” Silence for a long time, thirty seconds, a minute, five minutes, and then...

“I’m sorry...”

“Purple then, that’s okay.” She shuffles around to the back of the couch, and pulls the drapes open just the tiniest bit. Prudence waves absentmindedly at the heating blanket from the side chair, turns it to medium when it obediently floats into her hands, and drapes it over Reliance, tucking it around her sides and under her chin. She pushes a small pillow under Reliance’s head, shuffles her over so that she can sit next to her on the couch, and settles in with only the tip of her toes brushing her. With not another word, she pulls a book off the side table, and silently begins to read by the slice of light she had let in.

There was little more she could do on a purple day. Some days were just like that for Reliance, and Prudence did what she could. She’d get Reliance to drink some water in a few hours, but other than that, Prudence wouldn’t ask any more of her than she offered today. Blue days were very similar, but on those occasions Reliance could sometimes be coaxed out of this, into something more comfortable. Often it was the book that got her functional on a blue day; she would ask what Prudence was reading, and let herself be swept away in whatever imaginary world the book help, grateful for the lift out of the shadowy corners of her mood. On very good blue days, she could then be convinced to watch a movie, and eat some proper food. With a bit of companionable support, she would even end the day on a smile.

No such luck for her today, though, and Prudence knew it. Really, she’d known it from the start, driving up to the house; if it had been raining, or even a torrential downpour, she could still count on it being a blue day at worst. But today the rain had stopped dead, just floating there in the air; dead giveaway for purpleness. The reply after knocking on the door was the next sign, if she hadn’t already been sure, because if Reliance was in a very good mood, she would have been waiting for Prudence outside. And if she had only been as bad as blue, then the “come in” would have been more of a “fuck off.” The die had really just been her own last confirmation, as if there was a slight chance that it might read something like the leaf or the flower.

There was no reason for Prudence to be disappointed, she never became too attached to a plan before coming in the door each morning. It wouldn’t have been fair, since Reliance couldn’t control it any more than Prudence could, so she did what there was to do for the both of them. The rest of the day goes just as she knows it will; Reliance moves only in breathing, never shifting in place at all, never opening her eyes, never saying a word. And never sleeping. Prudence reads for a few hours, then makes herself dinner, and a lukewarm glass of water for Reliance, which she drinks automatically when it is gently pressed to her lips. Prudence doesn’t make her any food, since she wouldn’t want it, and would only make a mess of the carpet or couch if she had any. She leaves the tv on silent, once it gets too dark to read. And always, Prudence keeps only the tips of her toes or fingers touching her. Reliance can’t bear to be touched on purple days, but Prudence also knows that it helps Reliance greatly to have the constant reassurance of her presence, even if she only admitted it the next day. So it was light, just-able-to-feel-it pressure through the blanket. They had spent uncountable days like this, so Prudence isn’t unhappy in the slightest, this is just how it is on a purple day.

As she goes to bed, she touches Reliance the only other time for the day, planting the most light and gentle of kisses to her shoulder, through the blanket, knowing Reliance will feel it, and hear Prudence’s quietest of whispers, “I love all of you. You love all of me. Good night, my love.”

[talmondspeaker-blog]

So to start with, there was the Forger alone, the one who birthed all of reality. He had for himself several children, I don’t know how many, because I never could be sure I’d met them all. They weren’t physical beings like you and I sitting here, but beings made of and for creation, outside things we take for granted like time and space. It’s very difficult to describe in your language, words with single meanings don’t fit very well. Anyways, each of these children were given some number of Gifts of Creation. Some made their own entire worlds, filled with billions of forms of life, while some used their own few Gifts to add to their siblings’ existing Creations. It is a joyous and amazing thing, I am told, to create your own loved things, be it a kind of life or oceans and mountains, or planets and galaxies. Your Archangel, Luca, had only a few Gifts himself, and your race of angels is one of them. He made you in the way that he found most beautiful, with wings and Light and Rebirth all. Another of the siblings, one who understood less of what was beautiful, was jealous of the Archangel’s love. Their father in all things required and upheld balance, so the jealous brother stole the shape of you, and twisted it to his own ideas of interest: power and sharpness and shade all. This is why your kind have fought this war for so long.

But there was one child of the Forger who had no Gift of Creation of his own. Instead his gift was love, and he helped to keep the peace between his siblings, admiring the beauty in all kinds of Creation among them. The child was lonely and sad though, for without his own Gifts, he had no object of his own love to admire, and could not express the love he felt he was made for. Your Archangel, and exceptionally appreciative sibling for having had only a few Gifts compared to the others, felt sorrow for his brother’s missing love. Luca gave his last unused Gift of Creation to make for the lonely child a match, a perfect companion in every way for just that child, to love and be loved in the exquisite way that only the child could truly experience. She and he were, in every way that there can be, a perfect fitting match. Now part of a perfectly matched pair, the lonely child was complete, the truest and most timeless expression of all that is love and devotion and empathy. And for countless, immeasurable time, (for what is time to one who lives outside the worlds of time, space, and defined creation?) they were happy. The two inhabited all of the spaces between the worlds of the children of the Forger, and it seemed that it would go on forever. And for a while, it did.

But there came to pass eventually a darkness, a negation of creations made by the children, threatening to destroy all that had been made with the Forger’s Gifts. What the child who was now a pair wanted most, then, was to have the power to combat this darkness, this force of destruction. He had only the power of love, and the Forger insisted that he should not ask for more than he was given; balance is more important than glory, the child was told. But he did not listen. He longed to prove himself the equal of his uncounted siblings, to mark himself as a powerful being as they were.

It came soon thereafter to pass that he gained the power needed to defeat the destroying shadow, and defeat it he did. But to obtain such power, there is a price, and for power enough to defeat the greatest of darkness, there was needed the greatest cost. You see, power like that can’t be taken. It can’t be bought and paid for, it can not even be earned or built. There is only one thing in this infinite reality with true power such as that, and it is Sacrifice. You know this in part from when you paid for your answered prayer; twelve gave their lives, all of them, to pay for the help you asked for. They all had to be volunteers, willingly giving up their innumerable days for their family. It was not a sacrifice forced upon them, and nor was this sacrifice one that the child asked for. His match, the other half of his complete self, wanted for him to have his heart’s desire. She did the only thing that could be done for his wish, and willingly gave herself up, burning up her eternal existence in trade for the power he needed to match the shadow.

Well of course it wasn’t until the deed was done and the destroyer defeated that the child knew what he had lost, and seen what he had sown with is selfishness. He had gained his heart’s desire, and in doing so, lost his heart. After that, he lost himself in misery. Without anchor, he drifted through timeless, formless existence in increasing loneliness and agony. He longed to end his existence, but the lives of the children of the Forger are different even from your half-immortal Angel lives; there isn’t an end when you don’t fit into time. The child now had only one wish of his father, but the Forger insisted upon balance in all things, and the child could only assume that for his eternity of perfect happiness, he must now pay an eternity of pained emptiness. The child now kept the peace with his siblings harshly, using his horrifically-gained power to punish instead of mediate. His coming was seen as a dark omen instead of the light of peace, earning him his first names: Bringer of Darkness, Bringer of Judgement, Bringer of death.

Finally there came to Bringer, as he now even called himself, a final request from his father. A prayer for help from one of his siblings, their Creations set upon the same force of darkness that had once before threatened things of making and love. And the Forger promised the one payment that Bringer now wanted: Release. Stop this new force of unmaking and darkness, and Bringer would be unmade in return.

Which of course brings us here. Bringer is here to fight your new enemy with you, to help you fight your old, and bring your world one last Peace.

1/2

[talmondspeaker-blog]

“I thought about leaving, while you were gone.” She said it quietly, after a long silence full of dusky sunbeams and tensed shoulders.

“Should I be impressed? You think about deserting twice a day, you’d have quit a thousand times if you hadn’t sworn to stay.” He rarely sounded anything but weary or angry. At least it was angry today.

“I swore an oath to train, and to fight in the battle to come. I didn’t specifically vow to let you torture me for all time!” Her temper rose faster than she intended, as it had a tendency to do around him.

“You’re right, things are getting a little tough; you’re having to put effort into something and come up with some conviction for the first time in your life. Best call is to quit and complain about it.” He had no patience for any signs of weakness in her, real or imagined.

“Don’t try to be funny with me, you aren’t funny, you’re rude. Nobody thinks you’re special for being particularly rude, you know!” To be fair, he was spectacularly rude almost all of the time, making him in fact quite singular among those she knew well enough to know any better.

“By all means, complain about me instead, a different focus for your whining is sure to win the war, you could-” His slow and halting speech was easily enough interrupted, as softly as she did speak next.

“I actually left. I put on all my armor and walked out the door, toward the mountain.” From her tone as much as her presence, he gathered that she had not stayed gone.

“Did you? How very brave.”

“I walked outside of this damned tomb, and tasted fresh air for the first time in... I don’t know how long. I flew in a sky without black clouds and smoke in it, I talked to other people, I saw FACES that weren’t yours. I felt so free. I thought, now I can do what I want, be free of all the horrors he put me through, I never have to go back and see him again, ever.

...

So of course, here I am still. Just like you knew I would be when you left me alone.” Both sad and angry, though more angry sounding than sad, and more upset than furious.

“I try to keep my expectations low, to prevent you disappointing me too often.” He was waiting for her to tell him why, even though he knew the answer and she did not. She wouldn’t have brought it up if she had the answer.

“I couldn’t bring myself to do anything else. As angry as you make me, as terrified as my body feels, whenever it isn’t tortured or tired, I came back. Not necessarily for your training, but more to you.” Her anger was gone again, a match having flared burning out.

“I may blush. If I faint, be sure to catch me before I hit my head.” He was impatient for her to get to the point, she could tell. He was nothing if not impatient.

She stood looking at him in silence for a very long time. Seconds, minutes, hours. She felt as she always did when around him; her body screaming at her to run, run, RUN AWAY, the back of her head a constant news banner of Danger and Run and Unrightness and Terror; the rest of her mind battling to hold back an inexorable tide of aggression.

“Why?” She finally asked.

He composed his thoughts for another moment, before responding in his molasses speech.

“If I were here to make you... better, then perhaps it would not be so. But we are not here to make you a better person, but to forge a weapon of war to destroy an uncountable and unbeatable enemy. The fear that your kind feels in my presence, and your own unchecked aggression issues make you... volatile. But the archangel tried to teach you peace and emptiness, and your soldiers couldn’t come close to the Valkyrie Reborn-” this said with full contempt “-so what was left to make your grow into the tool needed to win the war? What you needed was anger and aggression, violence and the ability to inflict it upon the enemy while resisting that which was inflicted upon yourself.

You came back because who you are at this time and in this form, is not peace. You were angry and afraid before you met me. I’ve seen your bloody knuckles torn open to the bone, and that was your doing.

You came back because you need this. You are an angry and violent person, and I am the one that can make you, not a better and nicer piece of tissue paper, but a hard and sharp and blood-soaked weapon to burn down the Verdant Sea and every living thing within it.

You came back because here is the only place you feel alive at all.”

He was right, she thought. It was an unhealthy sort of thing, to seek this abuse. But after seeing the heart of the jungle void, she did not want to be healthy. She wanted to beat and break and slice and raze. She wanted to tear apart the entire jungle and every living thing inside, demon or otherwise, with her bear hands. She wanted to fight and burn and kill.

She wanted to feel alive.

[talmondspeaker-blog]

Chapters for Bringer’s Fall

In which almost nothing of significance is introduced.

In which events about which Lemony Snicket would be delighted to report upon occur.

In which a girl is told her name, and then killed.

In which a girl rises up not at all having enjoyed the previously mentioned killing.

In which a girl remains nearly entirely unconvinced of her name’s accuracy.

In which a girl’s aforementioned belief is shown to be somewhat off the mark.

In which a disaster of terrible proportion is found to have already happened.

In which a prayer is said.

In which a girl finds her previous name-related conviction to be more off the mark than previously believed.

In which a lack of death causes boredom, resulting in at least one problem.

In which the prayer is answered.

In which the cost of the answer is discovered and paid.

In which a girl is told her name, and then killed.

In which a girl rises up entirely having enjoyed the previously mentioned killing.

In which nearly everything else of significance is revealed.

In which the enemy should not have been named, and is.

In which the previously believed past disaster is revealed to still be going on.

In which a girl knows her name, and is entirely finished with the business of being killed.

In which there is a battle of some significance.

In which the last few things of significance are revealed entirely too late.

In which the ending and beginning both happen fairly neatly.

[talmondspeaker-blog]

What do you offer?

Next! What do you offer?

The line comes out in a monotone- I say it a few hundred times a day, once a week. Every Tuesday, Bringer hosts a purchasing day, where anyone can come in, employees or not, and bring offerings. Bringer pays them in however much time he judges the offerings to be worth, some will purchase offerings already left that day, and I keep detailed notes on every person’s balances. I also keep things organized, repeat my line constantly and without variation, and occasionally weigh in on an offering’s worth, if it comes to question. Not that it often comes to question; few are stupid enough to argue with Bringer.

Most folks bring fairly practical, simple things; jewels and tech, clothes and materials and anything else they’ve found that could be useful to Bringer’s work. These are mostly small amounts of time in worth, just enough for luxury items, or perhaps vacation days.

Others bring more interesting offerings, such as information. For information, Bringer has an insatiable appetite, since he can remember every detail. No matter how small or seemingly meaningless, he always finds worth in information, if he didn’t already know it.

Some things are seemingly useless, but are on the lists of categories of items named useful for research, which Bringer has going in every field imaginable. Human remains, bones and the like, or bodies donated to science; strange plants and poisons; people particularly intelligent in a certain way, volunteering for study. Anything that could go toward learning more, to knowing all that there is to know, is accepted.

And of course, there are bounties. Thieves or lawbreakers or murderers. That is what visitor 112 brings this morning, when I call out the familiar phrase.

Next! What do you offer? Han Yi Song, thief of schematics from Communications department, murderer of two people, a security guard, and a janitor. I check my pad to confirm the price for Song’s capture, but only as a formality. I know the bounty. The janitor was well liked in Communications. Five years, six months if dead. Seven if alive. A quick glance at the body, dumped unceremoniously on it’s face a moment earlier, a second glance at Bringer to confirm what he sees, and after a slight nod, check the alive box next to Song’s name. The offer-er is given his time, which I record. Employees on standby come and take away Song, to be brought to the jail cells for later interview, which I record. I call for next.

And the day wears on. Next! What do you offer?

Two warm blankets, two pairs of work boots, lightly worn. Five days, three hours.

What do you offer?

A small collection of herbs for poison and medicine, neatly labeled, fresh within a day, from a regular visitor. Two days.

What do you offer?

A program, using an invented algorithm to identify and map terrain samples more effectively from satellite imaging. (The offerings are seldom checked for quality at the time; Bringer always knows if he is lied to, and few are stupid enough to try to deceive him. In the rare event that the offering is not worth what was paid, the difference is only added to the visitor’s balance.) Nine days, fourteen hours.

What do you offer?

Information. Resident of 223 beach ave, Redmond Washington, United States, has a human body buried under his vegetable garden. Homeowner’s brother-in-law missing from work three days, wife of whom has credit card history as far away as New York the week prior. Conclusion not drawn. Three days, six hours.

What do you offer?

Forty seven rounds of wood, cut to three foot lengths. Three days, ten hours.

What do you offer?

Twelve hundred thirty feet of copper wire. Five days.

What do you offer?

Then, a request for a private audience with Bringer. I confirm with the visitor that, should the offer be accepted, a two week convenience fee is deducted for a private audience, and that if the offering fails to match this, the time will be added to the visitor’s balance. The unassuming man agrees politely. He is well mannered, showing a not exaggerated amount of respect, that always goes better for everyone. When the room is clear, the man is given the full attention of Bringer. Very few request a private audience during the official offering day.

“I bring information to offer. One you seek, who names himself John Crane, and The Crane, and also Cal of Sunderland is he called.”

At the name, Bringer leans forward slightly.

“He moves often,” continues the visitor, “and not predictably. Very likely he knows he is followed, and seeks to make no pattern of it. Except that in one way he has made a pattern. There is a house in which lives a woman and her son, and that house is visited on occasion by John Crane, believed by my closest spy to that of his sister or close friend but not lover, nor inhabitant. The visits are not consistent, but frequent enough to be sure of a connection.”

Bringer responds slowly, in a calm and measured voice, “For the information in detail, I will pay you twenty five years. If you will offer to be examined by me for full information and accuracy, I will instead offer you five years... and one Token.”

The visitor’s eyes widen for a brief instant. He considers only for a second or two, then steps forward smoothly, pulls the covering plate from the back of his neck, and turns his back to Bringer. Bringer stands, and places the palm of his hand on the visitor’s exposed skin, and there is a moment of silence where both men close their eyes. Then Bringer breaks the contact, leaving the telltale mark on the man’s neck, the visitor’s veins all dark spreading from the point of contact. But there was no possession, no changes made, only a reading, so the mark will fade quickly. Already, it can be seen visibly retreating toward the center of the point of contact, before the visitor replaces the plate on his neck, and steps back.

“Five years, and one Token. I trust from your quick quiescence that you are aware of the function and use of a Token?”

The man nods, almost a small bow. I make note of his five years, to be deducted from his balance, and hand him a small coin, carved from bone, and inscribed with Bringer’s seal.

“Thank you for your offering.”

The visitor understands his dismissal, and leaves without another word. Bringer seems calm in most ways, but having worked with him for decades, I can see he is containing great excitement, nearly brimming over with it.

This week may turn out to be much more interesting than planned.

[talmondspeaker-blog]

Day 12,924 of 8,300

I died again last night. I’ve been floating around, my spirit kind of tethered to my body, forced to watch everything that happens after my death. It’s almost always the same deal, because I’ve made sure my friends and family are all used to me going quiet for a day or so at a time. Even though I know this wont stick, I still don’t want them to worry, to hurt over me. It’s a lot easier for me during this waiting time to endure when nobody finds my body; I can meditate over the day’s events, think about all the things I would do differently. That can be pretty peaceful, even if it’s boring a lot of the time.

I know, I know, how are you bored after DYING? Well, it happens enough to a fella and he’s bound to get used to it, bored by it even. Talking to myself right now, aren’t I?

Ah, there we are. A hook somewhere behind my chest, pulling me backwards. The world recedes from view in a rush, washing out into darkness as I feel wind rushing past my not-there body. There’s a brief sensation of falling, then a landing on my back on something soft.

I wake up with a short *whoof* as my breath is knocked out of me, my eyes opening to the morning light I saw last the day before I died. That part never made sense to me; if I’m waking up that morning, before I died, then why do I physically feel the impact of my soul crashing back into my body? I suppose the follow up to that is, why do I wake up the morning before, every time I die? It’s been happening as long as I can remember. The first time was when I was a small child. Five, maybe six? My family was in a pretty rough car crash, and none of us lived through it. That first time was pretty tough, seeing my parents like that, not able to move, just floating above the scene of my death for an hour or two. The car that hit us didn’t stop, and nobody else came by, so I was just... there. Couldn’t close my eyes, because I didn’t have any. Couldn’t shut anything out. I was just old enough that I realized I was dead, so imagine my shock when soon after I was sucked back into my racecar bed at home, my father waking me up for school.

Growing up was interesting.

I eventually realized that I could do my days over, if I died before going to sleep. I was rather a bit more dramatic about it as a teenager than I perhaps should have been, but that’s high school for you. I would jump off buildings, out of planes, in front of trains. That all stopped when I survived an attempt, and almost passed out before I died; I’m not greatly interested in the idea of waking up half dead, dying, and repeating that day for eternity. Just not my cuppa, you know?

I found out as well that guns are too messy and loud, and attract too much attention. Much better when I got a good syringe, full of a carefully picked poison that kills me really quickly, and not at all painfully, it’s a good way to end a bad day. Then I can just sit around my body, nobody to interrupt my thoughts as I plan out how I’ll do the day better next time around. Ask out the girl successfully, keep from screwing up at work, not miss the bus, remember to not lock my keys in my car.

I’m not saying that I’ve killed myself just over locking my keys in my car. But I’m not saying I haven’t either.

[talmondspeaker-blog]

Why he isn’t an Angel

He isn’t here to help. Not really. He isn’t kind, or caring. He is most certainly not happy.

But he was sent by his father to destroy the enemy, to assist us in finishing this war, so here he is. He’ll train you all, prepare you as I could not for the coming battle, and harden you as you need to be. He never loses, he’s never been beaten, and his assistance will mean the difference between victory and extinction for the Angels.

So show him your respect, because we owe him our lives, every one of us.

He isn’t an Angel, he isn’t a Demon. He isn’t even from this world. All you know, all that ever has been here, our full history, it’s of little consequence to him. You all feel it, don’t you? That irrational, persistent feeling of deep, instinctual dread when he is nearby. The base desire, when he looks at you, to abandon your senses and run for your life, or fight for it. He is a primordial being, son of the Forger himself. He predates all you know, he was old before this world was born, and you can feel that. He isn’t a natural thing, not of this reality.

So show him your respect, because he is beyond us all.

He was once comparatively ordinary. His father is the Forger of all things, but he for all his blood was not much more than an ordinary man, for long uncountable years. He spent centuries upon centuries doing his father’s will, and of course enjoying the cosmos with his mate. His siblings built worlds, playing with creation gifted by their father, while he sought only to prove his worth despite his lack of gifts or powers. His epic love was one way he found to show his father that he was great without power, but of course the story doesn’t end there. He also sought, after incomprehensible time spent under his lording siblings, the power to be their equal, to stand proud among his siblings’ creations of space and wonder. The kind of power he wields now, it isn’t something that can be earned or won. It cannot be given or taken. Neither can it be found or bought. There is only one price that pays for the kind of power he now embodies, and it is sacrifice. A willing sacrifice, made out of only the most honest, pure love; the kind that one would never, in all of time, want to be made.

So show him your respect, because he has suffered more than any other.

[talmondspeaker-blog]

A School for the Cur

The Cur, Qu'rorr, if it please you, arrived a long time ago. My mother's mother wasn't born yet when they showed up. Or revealed themselves. Or whatever they did. Everyone says different stories, like how they're aliens, or evolved humans, or some other stupid thing. What does it matter where they came from? They look like people, they talk like people, and they certainly have sex like people, since that's where us half-breeds came from. "Specials" they called us, during the wars. Demigods before, and satanspawn after, but the wars are the part of the story that matters. Sure, after the wars, they tried to change everyone's mind, make it look like the Cur were really victims, that humans fighting for their survival was really a hate crime turned genocide. And right up until the day the first shots were fired, everyone thought they were damn angels. Like a god would ever send down those things and start a war like that, right. And I'm a damn pigeon. Nobody who ever saw the first war would ever think to call the Curr victims. The second war might have been the longer one, but that's only because in the first, they killed hundreds of men every minute. We weren't prepared for that level of warfare. We threw what we thought was an overwhelming military force at them at Black Island, enough to wipe them off the face of the planet. For brief moments, some idiots thought that it was even overkill. Six million men, give or take, attacked their base on the Island. I don't remember how many came back. Maybe about two hundred? Not that many. Me and my group. A few other toons. Nobody who saw that war would ever call the Cur victims, and nobody who ever called a Cur a victim ever saw the war for themselves. We lost. For every Cur, hundreds of men died, falling pathetically against their power. First war only ended because some highup fucker decided to just microwave the place. Not a real microwave, but that's what they call it, and nobody knows what it really is. Just killed every living thing there, nice and neat, them AND us. Bit of a bastard move, but the war was over. and Black Island was empty of the Cur's main army.

Not that it did any good. Of course there were more of them. The Cur were smarter than us, by a long shot. Smarter, faster, stronger, all that shit. Humans, so sure of themselves before, looked like little children still getting shit on their fingers. Of course there were more of them. The big boys knew we couldn't just bomb everywhere, so that's where we came in. The Demigods, Specials, Satanspawn. All the half-breeds that were loyal to the human side gathered under Commander Crow, taking Black Island for our training school. Anyone who wanted to join, and believe me, there were a lot of us, could come and face the trials of Crow's black school, and those that lived through training fought in the war, the second war, the real war, against the Cur.

I still remember our first day. We were waiting at the airport, twenty of us, told to report there for instructions. That's where we all first met, my team. Of course Kain was easy to spot, mouthing off about how he couldn't wait to start killing Cur. His brother, Marcus, loomed nearby like a great mountain of a man. I was content to sit nearby, waiting for our plane to arrive. Of course Sveta wasn't talking to anyone- female specials were rare, really rare, and it made the guys nervous. And of course Billy. He didn't seem like much at the time, though of course now there isn't a person alive who doesn't know his name. The famous William Duke, champion of the Second War. The infamous William Duke, slayer of Cur, who eats babies. Take your pick, they both sound stupid. To his crew, to us, he was Billy. To us, he was our leader, our commander, and we would have followed him right off the edge of the world without even looking down.

Well, the planes arrived, instead of just one. Four of them, for four groups of five. We had to fly them to the Black Island ourselves. Funny, none of us knew each other before that day. It was mostly just coincidence that the five of us ended up together. But we did, all rushing into our plane. Me and Billy knew how to fly, mostly, and the little things were roomy enough that all five of us could talk while we flew. The planes followed coordinates set in them, driven by anxious, apprehensive, excited, cocky Specials all ready to take on the world.

Man was that first day a nightmare, before the golden days started. Don't get me wrong, I loved every minute of the training, and the war was terrible I guess, but mostly it was exactly what we wanted to do, cuz we were so good at it. But that first day was rough. I mean, firing AA guns and artillery and shit at us without warning? A bit of a rough hazing, but then, that was the only day of the year where the students could kill each other inside the rules, so of course they had a bit of fun with it. We got lucky, in our plane. Billy had us off from the other three by a good quarter mile, for no reason in particular, so when the shooting started, and one of the other planes went down, we had warning. You see those stupid movies where a group forms slowly, learning to trust each other slowly through experience, going through rough patches, then coming out a tighter team for it? None of that shit for us. The second that plane went up in smoke, we were a team. We were the first ones to get to the cliffside of the island, where the guns were all set in cave openings, and the only team to make it there with all five of us alive.