Oh where are you going, my love with the mask Oh where are you going tonight? I'm going, my lovely, to take up my task By ol' Gibbou's radiant light
By ol' Gibbou's radiant young light, my love I'm off from your lips and your arms And with a spring in my step and the moon high above I am taking up my task
And why are you donning that mask, my love, Oh why are you wearing the mask? I'm wearing the mask, my love, my love, 'Cause that's what humans all ask
My face, my love, is ugly and glum And causes them to cry It makes them cry, my love, my love And quickly- oh! they die
And so my lovely, I'm wearing a mask 'Cause I'm ugly, grey, and glum And if I'm to do what I must do I must wear it or be dumb
But oh, my love, my sweet, my life Where are you going tonight? Where are you going and leaving your wife When the deathsun's out of sight?
I'm going, my love, I'm off to the fight I'm off to the mountain's far In the shade of the moon and the bosom of trees I'm off to the raging war
You're off to the raging war, my love And leaving me alone In the bosom of trees, my love, my love And I all on my own
Oh don't be long, my love, my love Don't be a long time gone For if the great old sun should rise, my dear I surely will become stone
Without you here I would rather be Some dust or seaside stone So oh be quick, and oh be fast Come with the rising sun
Oh I will not be long my dear My heart will flutter home Oh if I lie, my dear, my love In earth, to you I'll roam
I'm off from your lips, my dear, and your arms I'm off to call Thunder down I'm off from your kisses and all of your charms To kill him with my frown
And then I'll be back, oh then I'll be back And then I'll be back my dear With a mask on my back and a grin on my lips And a heart of great joy and cheer
Oh then you'll be back, oh then you'll be back Oh then you'll be back, my dear The moon will be out and the night will be black When you return my dear
Oh the night will be black and the moon will be out When Thunder falls my dear And he'll fall at my frown and he'll fall at my shout And then I'll be back my dear
Oh then you'll be back, my dear only then And I will be waiting here With stony gaze and stony eye If 'twere ten thousand year
It 'twere ten thousand year my love Ten thousand and a day Beneath the moon I'll wait for you Beneath that old sun's ray
Oh where are you going, my love with the mask Oh where are you going tonight? I'm going, my lovely, to take up my task By ol' Gibbou's radiant light
By ol' Gibbou's radiant young light, my love I'm off from your lips and your arms And with a spring in my step and the moon high above I am taking up my task
A ballad recording sadly the farewell of a draug to his beloved as he goes off to up his task of protecting life. He's of to the mountains to fight the trolls who have been killing, rather than protecting, life. Draugs, generally, can now be expected to take up a more active role in counteracting the actions of their treacherous kin.
There is a danger, shipmates, that comes with the explosive birth of magicks into the world; one that mayhaps those Vrool of the ancient Deep did not immediately perceive, and one that even that all-perceiving nonfeeler who goes building and saturating all things in some blind and foolish hope of truth mayn't have. But the tree, the tree, ah! the tree did feel, for how was't not to feel what spelt its doom? Of the tree of the ink god's birth let this be known: 'twas not the crashing waves of callous seas that brought it low, ah, no - 'twas not the howling wind; 'twas not a pelting rain, my friend, or gnashing monsters of the deeps. 'Twas a sorcerous ripple, friend, that burst its side and slew its branch and ah! then sent it crashing down.
Why then, the ocean all was painted black and every Vrool for miles around knew only ink - and ink, you see, is poison when unleashed in such great quantity. But there was a sorcery to the sea about the hallowed Ku that spared the warring race of Vrool and caused instead their ocean home to be eternally encased in oil; and they themselves - for this reason sorcery and the gods should ever be kept apart! - found that in their form, their brain, there grew any oily sac of blackness.
The oceans depths were painted black - for oil, if you must know my friends, is lighter than water; but divine ink can only sink - and so all about the western side of that hallowed Ku stretched out an endless ink expanse; and what was darkness and what was ink a man could only guess. And all those ocean things that witnessed the terrible falling of the tree were coated all of them in ink; but only those sorcerous types came to have power over the darkness that now clawed into their flesh a home.
To all of this was the glorious and ever-victorious Okarzunkaxoxondrom witness and party, for by his sorcerous and awakened will was he coated in the ink of gods, and felt he well the growth behind his core brain the oily sac of ink and blackness with which he would now and forevermore paint the cretinous forms of his good-as-dead challengers dark - a worldly darkness that called on them to hark the coming eternal darkness with which the Glorious and Ever-Victorious would acquaint them with. And nay, for this was not all - beneath the gnarled and twisted skin of the almighty Vrool did colour burst and churn; and aye he admitted that for the briefest seconds those colours were beyond his power; but ah! no sooner had he willed then it was within his grasp and power. And he, the Vonu-speaker before whom all wept and wailed, waxed vibrant and cruel, gaze unbending and tendrils spreading and, ah! He waxed mighty indeed!
Through the inky depths flowed he, the Glorious and Ever-Victorious, he! and all about slinked out of sight and hissed and spat but dared not steer themselves before - he! 'I, the Glorious!' Breathed the mighty one in hallowed vonu, 'the Ever-Victorious; my tendrils waxen and grow, my vibrant form manifests; my sorcerous will is known to all! All bends before my gaze o-' 'Okarz Rux, what are you mumbling to yourself there?' An immense vrool emerged from the darkness. The infinitesimal Okarz froze in place for what felt like a long period, his many minds clamouring to be heard. 'J-just gathering samples, Xuxa Rux. Who would have thought that that thing was the Hidden Blackgod all along.' A click closer to a cough emanated from him, and Xuxu Rux clicked sagely in agreement. 'Indeed, Okarz Rux. And I am disinclined to be of the view that this case shall be without ramifications of a considerably unfavourable classification.' 'I- uh. I would disagree with your- uh. Assessment of the sit- condition of this state of affairs, Xuxu Rux. The fall of the tree can only be the portent of terrible things to come - even if, in its fall, the Hidden Blackgod has seen to bless us so greatly.' 'But Okarz Rux, you have not, by the nature of what you have spoken to me presently at this very moment, shown any form of disagreement or disinclination towards what I have not long before your speaking spoke. If I may be so bold, Okarz Rux, I would go so far as to say that your words and what I have previously advanced may well be the locus points of two perpendicular formations.' Okarz' many minds assessed the information as he blinked at the massive form of the other vrool. 'You must excuse me, Xuxu Rux, for I believe I have observed a salmon in a south-easterly-downward direction from our current location.' And so saying, the Glorious and Ever Victorious Okarzunkaxoxondrom left behind him another felled foe - the might of his words and his impenetrable logic had laid to waste all of that inferior warlock's protestations and fumblings. Thus was the impossible mind and genius of he!
The tree from which Meghzaal was born collapses due to the explosion of magic into the sea. This brings about an inky ecosystem immediately west of Ku. Many creatures living here will now have various ink-related traits, though only the vrool possess ink sacs, allowing them to pump out blasts of ink for various purposes. While most creatures in the region have ink in their skin now, only Warlocks have the ability to control it for camouflage purposes. Okarz makes a return, and we discover that he is now a Warlock. It has done nothing for his size though. He discusses fall fo the tree with a giant warlock, but the words of the other warlock are so impenetrable and abstruse that he swiftly excuses himself on the pretence that he has spotted a salmon.
- Free: Create a large undersea ink ecosystem, to the west of Ku.
The Kavijama | the thing of ink & poetry | The Hibrach
&
Lucia
Gibbou had made it to the western shoreline of Toraan by the time a thought struck her like a lightning bolt. She nearly fell out of the sky as she turned around, a finger stuck up into the air as if saying, “Eureka!” She needed a way for the Hir to move about! After all, she was kind of tiring from this constant flying back and forth - she couldn’t very well serve as the delivery girl for this thing! She had to do something - some kind of spell or blessing or…
Her train of thought brought her to the ground, which by now was in the middle of the Blood Basin. A distant Alminaki caravan passed by, eyeing her curiously. Gibbou sighed and sat down in the sand, drawing schematics for how she wanted the horn to move around.
It took only a moment or two for Fìrinn’s perception to locate the moon goddess, and as she sat in the sand a sudden gust of wind blew across the plain, directly behind her. A moment after it passed, the voice of Fìrinn rang out, clear and true:
”Gibbou.”
The god of Truth hovered above the sand, as still as a statue, while its mantle-claws idly traced signs and sigils in the coarse grains below. It looked down at Gibbou--if one could consider Fìrinn to be capable of looking at anything--expectantly, awaiting the inevitable burst of surprise that its sudden entrance would garner. Fìrinn predicted that she would react very similarly to her sister and was eager to put this notion to the test.
“Wah!” squealed the Moon goddess and peered in every direction, holding her horn up defensively. Her eyes fixed on the expressionless form of the Truth god and squinted. Slowly, she stood up and made a diplomatic wave of her hand. “H-hello. D-do I know you?”
”After a fashion, yes. You spoke with my night-self, just as I spoke with your day-self--I am Fìrinn, god of Truth and Reflection. I am the twin of Àicheil.”
The response was simple and fast, accompanied by its mantle-claws giving a gentle wave like Fìrinn had seen so many mortals do to one another. It was still a strange concept, to the god’s mind, but it would likely have the desired effect of pacifying any surprise that Gibbou might have retained.
”I am here because I have seen your plans, mother of the moon. A calamity is due to befall we who stand above all others, and I am spending the remainder of my time ensuring that mortalkind do not suffer through the uncertain future alone: I come to offer you a boon and a solution to your problems.”
“Wait, calamity? Wah?” She looked down at her horn. “I was just looking for a way to make this move by itself. What kinda calamity’s going on?”
”That is something that I do not know. Have you not felt it upon the wind, and in the currents below? Have you not looked down from your moon upon this Galbar and felt the consternation? There is a change simmering beneath the fabric of this world, and I do not know that reality’s Truth includes us in that change. Perhaps it is nothing, or perhaps it is everything--I can only say for certain that things will cease to be how they are, and they will become something new.”
Fìrinn’s response was--for once--intentionally cryptic. Those gods who had not felt it must have been concerned with more immediately pressing concerns and the alignment of reality with their truths. It would not do to interrupt such noble work, but Fìrinn could also no longer afford to tarry and mortalkind still required adequate protection for what was to come.
”I hear and feel each prayer. They float across the subtle weave like rays of moonlight, collecting deeply within the embrace of the holy Tairseach--and it is through these prayers that your gift to mortalkind will find locomotion. Through mirrors and reflections; through zeal and righteous fervor.”
“You really are your brother’s brother, huh,” Gibbou mumbled with a rake of her head. “You could’ve just said ‘something’s coming, but I don’t know what’.” She sighed and shrugged. “But nitpicking’s mean, I’m sorry. So, uh, you wanted in on the Hir project?”
”We are Twins, but not brothers. It may be challenging to explain to you, given your relationship with your sister, but we are not like you in that sense. Àicheil takes on the male pronoun simply as a matter of becoming more approachable--to speak with my twin is challenging, as you well know. Every advantage he can get is one he must take, for the nature of the Dream is to find infinite meaning in a shallow pool.”
Fìrinn’s mantle-claws traced another pattern in the sand, etching into the coarse grains of earth the holy symbol of the Two-as-One. Within that triquetra it drew another symbol, and just as quickly as it was drawn the entire design bubbled and writhed as if suffused with an intense heat until only glass remained, and within that glass was contained a reflection of a mortal man--the caravanner from earlier.
”I do not require the worship of mortality to be content with my role in their survival and flourishing. I desire no credit, no mention, no accolades--I only wish for mortalkind to continue to align reality with Truth, and in so doing become the most ideal versions of themselves and shape the most ideal version of Galbar. I only offer this gift to ensure their livelihood and to align your Truth with reality.”
Gibbou frowned in confusion. The talk of alignment of Truth with reality seemed to fly over her like the clouds themselves, so she offered a polite nod and a confident, “Yeah, totally!” Then, she got out the horn for Fìrinn to bless. “Well, whatever your reasons, mister Fìrinn, your contribution to the Hir project is most welcome! Just for you, I’ll make sure nobody knows you helped!”
Fìrinn’s mantle-claws picked up the shard of glass from the desert floor, and its true hand touched the shard gently, aligning it with the rays of light so that within it the Hir was reflected. Then, with a surge of divine energy, it reached through the glass and into the reflection of the horn, infusing it with aureate hues and a corona of light. Then, the light shifted, and the reflection was gone--but the glow remained within the strange horn.
”It is done. The merit of the work exists within the work itself, Mother of the Moon, not in being known or seen to have done it. The legacy of what we leave behind and what changes we make are what defines us, and long after our last footsteps upon this fertile soil have been washed away by the tiny pitter-patter of mortal feet what we have made and what we have done shall remain. You live in your day-self’s shadow, hoping that the transitive property of success shall pass through all you do if only you emulate her and follow in her footsteps. You worry that you are incapable of protecting mortalkind, and that all you have done will be insufficient or forgotten. These things are not your Truth, child, and continuing to cling to them will leave reality a less fulfilled and realised place.”
Fìrinn’s mantle-claw reached out to the Moon goddess’ shoulder, resting upon it supportively.
”You are Gibbou, Mother of the Moon, Guardian of Mortalkind. You are not just Gibbou, sister of Oraelia, and Shadow of the Sun. Eternity stretches out before you like the vastness of the open sea, and each wave that you make will return to that great demesne before you are gone. That you made them at all and laboured so fiercely to give them protection is Truth enough; think not upon the fact that they will end. It is the fate of all but we to end one day, but in the brevity of life they find meaning. In your love and your Truth they find gentle solace. I taught the concept of openness to your elves, Mother of the Moon. Perhaps you may follow in their footsteps?”
It seemed as though the words of Fìrinn had taken Gibbou completely off-guard, for she stood quite still, torso almost huddled together a little in a somewhat defensive manner, with her neck pulled gingerly down between her shoulders. Large, moon-white pupils looked up at the empty face of the Truth god and showed clear signs of increasing moisture. However, it didn’t last longer than a minute, and as quickly as the change of emotions had come, she gently pushed Fìrinn’s hand off her shoulder and went, “W-worry? Hah! I’m not worried! I mean, with this here, mortalkind will be perfectly well protected! I-I don’t need their praises to let me know I’m good enough, and I certainly don’t need you telling me that I’m anxious about stuff! Stuff that I am confident about, by the way! I’m not jealous of my sister - you are completely wrong!”
”You linked minds with my twin, child. I know your mind as he did--a moment of perfect clarity, suspended within glass. I hope only that you become what you can--what you are meant--to be. Mortalkind will thank you for your efforts, in time. They already sing your praises in their thoughts and in their dreams. I could show you each prayer, each dream, each fluttering feeling within their breast as they look up at that wondrous orb in the night and wonder. But perhaps that is for another day, another time. Is there anything else I may do for you, to align reality with your Truth?”
The offer was not heard so much as it was felt, waves of compassion and empathy vibrating through the air as Fìrinn’s meaning and intent made itself known within Gibbou’s mind. It was a brief embrace, free from judgement or guilt or ulterior motive: a resonant chime to open the mind to what lay beyond, if she was ready. Today was not that day, however, and Fìrinn knew that before it asked. Sometimes, asking the question was all that was required to get the answer.
“Pfft! Yeah, right - mortalkind are singing my praises… Half don’t-... They don’t even know me! Even the night elves, my own people, don’t like me. All because I was, was such a--...” It seemed that the emotions invoked previously by the Truth god’s kind words hadn’t quite dissipated yet. She did her best to rub the quartz-like tears out of her eyes, but failed miserably. “Why, why am I even still here? I don’t need this right now! I-... I have a purpose, a mission, and I won’t be distracted anymore!” She kicked off, stopped midair and floated back down to the ground. “Goodbye!” she spat angrily before soaring off again. Another moment passed before she once again returned, picked up the Hir and went, “Forgot the, the damn, thing. Ugh!” And then, she soared off - but northwards instead of westwards.
Fìrinn looked upon Gibbou as she departed--and then returned--and departed again. It seemed to stare at her impassively, as if deep in contemplation, before simply vanishing from that sand-filled basin and making its way west. There remained more work to be done, and many places yet to do it in.
A few hours later, Gibbou crash landed in the Prairie to the north. She hadn’t lost control of her flying and the fall hadn’t hurt her at all - her train of thought had simply taken her focus off of her journey and she had felt like lying down to think. For the time being, all thoughts of Adrian and the Night Elves had faded to the back of her mind as she pondered the words spoken by Firinn - what was her truth? Who was she doing all this for? Mortality? Oraelia? Herself?
Was her mission to protect mortalkind or was it simply guilt for killing the very first life in the world?
She cringed. She hated these thoughts, but chasing them away did nothing but intensify them. The more she wanted to forget them, the clearer they became. She had to fasten her mind to something else. She propped herself up, Hir dangling faithfully at her side. She gave it a reassuring pat and said, “I sure am glad I made you durable, little guy.” She then stood up and walked in the direction of what she believed to be a temple of sorts on the horizon - maybe meeting someone would get her mind off of all this.
“You have to force yourself, Lucia!” Orb lectured. “You have to will it to come! To be! Do not be weak!”
She stood next to the pool, Lucia with an angry look on her face as Orb hovered around her. Sweat dripped off her brow as she had her hands cupped in front of her, a small flame dancing between her hands. It took her weeks even to manage that, now Orb wanted her to make it bigger. The tattoo’s upon her face looked agitated, angry even. Her Love still wore her, or she guessed she wore him.
She gritted her teeth. ”I’m aware, Orb.” The flame grew slightly larger, but then winked out and she gave a frustrated sigh before sitting down. Orb landed in front of her silently.
“You know,” he began, “That was an improvement Lucia. Forcing mana to be what you want it to be, to take from the flows, is no easy task. Your progress is moving… Swimmingly.”
She laid back, wiping the sweat off her forehead as her tattoos shimmered back to an exhausted state. ”You keep saying that, but I don’t really see any substantial improvement. Why couldn’t it be easier, like… singing or dancing?”
Orb was silent, as if processing the question. “That’s just how it is.” He said finally.
Lucia sat back up, a comb of solar energy materializing in her hand. She began to comb out her tangles as she looked at Orb again. ”You think it would be easier, since I can use the sun to make stuff. Isn’t the sun made of fire? Like, honestly.” she mused.
“Hello?” came a sudden echo from the entry hall of the temple complex.
Lucia suddenly snapped her head in the direction of the voice and got to her feet, comb shimmering away in the light. A visitor! She could hardly contain her excitement! In her haste, she left Orb behind as she made her way to the stairs, where the voice came from.
In the entryway stood a plum-skinned female, with hair like a deep blue night, clothes like the darkest abyss and a pair of dark disks over her eyes. Bright pupils through the black glass hinted that she had noticed Lucia approaching, and she waved a greeting. “Hi! Sorry, I came in to seek, uh, refuge from the, uh, Sun! Woah, gotta tell ya, it’s so bright out there.” She strolled up the stairs and extended her hand. “Hi, the name’s Gibbou - Oraelia’s my sister and I’m from the Moon, ya-da, ya-da.” She looked around. “Nice place you’ve got here, miss Mortal. Built it yourself?”
Lucia’s tattoos lit up, shimmering with excitement as she looked at her Aunt in the flesh. She looked at the extended hand and not really knowing what to do with it, she instead went in for a hug, saying, ”I know your name, Mother spoke so highly of her sister, my Aunt!”
“Your what-now?” replied the moon-goddess, every inch of her momentary confidence blown away like smoke on the wind.
Lucia pulled herself away and looked at Gibbou again. ”I am Oraelia’s daughter, and she told me that you are my aunt! I was wondering when this day would come, and now it has!” she said happily.
Gibbou blinked. Then, jumping backwards, she shouted, “OREY HAS A DAUGHTER?!” She leaned back in, put on a star-bright glare and held a quivering, tightened fist a few inches from Lucia’s chin. “You better start explaining to me just when you were born, missy - my sister would never, ever keep something so important a secret from me, so if you’re lying about this, I swear…”
Lucia’s happy smile faded, replaced by a look of shock, then confusion. ”She never told you about me?” she asked aloud. ”I was… Born when this Sunlit Temple was created. Maybe around… uh… I don’t really keep track of time here…” she said softly, holding her arm. ”I’m Lucia… By the way.”
“No mention,” Gibbou confirmed and pursed her lips. After looking Lucia up and down again, though, she pulled away again and dusted her shoulder off cinematically. “But you do look like her, and I saw her recently, so she could’ve made you after that.” With a sigh, she clenched her fist so a spot on the stone floor twisted and molded into a small stool, upon which she sat down. “I don’t see a reason for you to lie about being her daughter anyway, so… Sorry. I’ve had a rough day.” She laid her face in a propped-up hand. “... And wouldn’t you know it, this is just another thing to add to that list of more things - woah, well done, Gibsy, protector of all life.”
Lucia sat down on the floor, a look of concern on her face as she looked at Gibbou. ”She did mention she came from the moon.” Lucia said at first, before continuing, ”There’s no need to be sorry, I came on too strongly, I think. You seem troubled… Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“No, it’s… It’s just…” She sucked in a deep breath through the nose. “Do I have the aura of a protector? Actually, before you answer that, do I remind you of your mother, my sister? How alike are we? Is she nicer than me? Does she maybe give off a better feeling of guardian… -ness?”
Lucia blinked as she thought. There was something deeply troubling her aunt, that much was obvious. She would have to approach this carefully. Just like with Qael. She stroked her chin and said, ”You remind me a lot of mother, you both look the same with some differences. I can’t say how alike you are, I haven’t gotten to know you yet but I can say that I do know you are the nicest goddess she’s ever met and one of the few she loves unconditionally. You’re her sister, how could you not be nice, if not nicer? As for a guardian… I feel safe at night knowing you’re up there. I like to watch the moons, your moon in particular. It makes me feel… at peace.”
Gibbou frowned. “You’re just saying that to be nice, aren’t you? You don’t even know me and you still say these things like we’re friends or something.” She drew a quivering breath and shook her head. “I’m-I’m sorry, that was awful of me to say.” She stood up from her stool and it retracted back into the floor, not even leaving a scar in the stone. “I’m sorry, coming here was a mistake. I- I need to go somewhere, anywhere. My moon, probably. The silence up there is… It’s soothing. I’d show it to you, but, uh… You’d die.” She sighed and hung her head. “Like a lot of things I come into contact with, it would seem.”
A look of pain flashed across Lucia’s face before she stood up, hands in her robe. That hadn’t gone right. She pursed her lips before saying, ”That’s okay Gibbou. You don’t know me, how could you? I haven’t been alive for very long… But I didn’t just say those things to be nice. I meant them. You don’t have to be friends with someone to know they’re a good person but I apologize if what I said was upsetting. Please don’t go…” she said sadly, ”I’d like to get to know you and I can’t if you’re up on the moon. I know my Love would too.”
“Look, I really appreciate your concern, Lucia, but I’m not really sure I’m, y’know, the mood to meet more mortals - I have a bad history with most of them, see.” To illustrate her point, she started moving towards the exit again.
”My Love isn’t a mortal though!” Lucia called after her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” replied Gibbou and spun around at the absurdity of the claim. Well, at least she had stopped.
”Have you met Meghzaal, before?” she asked, swaying back and forth.
“Gesundheit,” said the moon goddess politely, feeling an odd sensation of déjà vu.
She smirked, her tattoos blazing to life as she said in a melodic voice,
“You’ve seen him you see, For I wear him all the time, And he’s never one to leave me, So please stay and listen to his rhyme?”
And with Lucia’s speech the robes of ink trembled and pulsed, and a rhythmic sigh echoed throughout the temple of the sunmother. Blotches of ink dripped and swirled upwards, tendrils snaking away into the growing cloud of shifting colours above the tattooed Lucia - and even when her god was gone and her body was revealed in its original sublime splendour, a tendrilous inky hand grasped at her wrist or this finger or that, as though to lose contact was to lose all. As the cloud grew the sigh became a louder and more complex trilling - joyous, hopeful, but containing an inescapably agonised undertone, as though calling from across great distances to the absent beloved. In that twisting nebula, the ghost of a visage seemed to form - the hint of eyes, the thought of a nose, the inkling of a mouth; and with the mouth came words.
When you have lived and raged to a great age Those embers dance and sing the death of rage To rage and weep does not befit the moon With many tears we bring ourselves to ruin Far better ‘tis to leap and twirl and prance Release that rage and madly sing and dance! Hear it from one who walked with tears the way Unleash your silent lungs and swing and sway!
And even as the song reverberated throughout the temple - with a melancholy that pervaded the walls and a paradoxic electric energy that seemed to have the pillars gently vibrating with the tune - the cloud of ink & poetry slowly mushroomed and flared, and through the clouds a vaguely humanoid thing of ink and smoke came leaping - a slow, long leap - towards the moonmother. A hand came forth, and the inky many-coloured face of Meghzaal appeared from the inky mists. His eyes glistened and tears of ink seemed to flow freely down his liquid cheeks. ‘Come, let us dance and sing our woes away - oh let’s jump the maelstrom and watch where joy and misery play!’
Gibbou recoiled defensively and eyed the inky form up and down. “Ah! Oily! Wait, no, I don’t really want to dance right now, can’t we just--...” Her hand was snatched up regardless and she was pulled into a spinny dance. “No, waait!” But the love-mad bard was listening to a higher song, and - ah, gods! - heard not her cries of protestation and refusal, so taken up was he in that eternal song and dance.
The trilling sigh took on a greater urgency, there was a beat to it now and the electric energy seemed to suffuse the entirety of the temple complex. Gibbou on his left and Lucia on his right, the poet rose up in a great bubbling cloud, and all about them ink and colour exploded, and sound converged on them in endless rhythmic waves, permeating their hair - why, now even their hair seemed to leap and twirl with the ecstatic song! The shifting nebulae of bursting colours and gushing sound rocked all about them and danced, urging Lucia and Gibbou to be the heart of the song, the core of the dance. Lucia, once again, was caught up in the moment, going along with the dance in her own way.
My love's a woman lovely in her bones, When worldsongs hum, she hums right back at them And when she moves, all songs are sighs and moans: She gives the formless form, the wind a stem To watch her dance is to know majesty To see her sway is to rout sanity Between her blessèd mad there's only amity!
Her dance is war - a war without a truce Don't close your mouth, there's power in your pleas Her dance is life, her sways are light and loose; The head goes swinging by her gliding knees; And swirls go flying, she from them removed Her hips stir life - it need at all be proved She moves in circles, and those circles moved.
The clouds can weep, and earth be swept away I'm victim of a dancing not my own What's godhood for if not to kneel and pray? I swear I've worshipped all her hairs, her bone And never thought to count out time in days This inky gaze was made to learn her ways I measure time by how a body sways.
Gibbou awkwardly blew along with the gust that was the dance, frequently trying to protest throughout the song, but never feeling it to be appropriate. Finally, once the last verse had been sung, she broke out, “C-can we please stop? I’m not, I don’t--!” She was spun in a pirouette. “No, please listen, I don’t like this! This is not helpful!”
The song suddenly halted and Gibbou was released back to the ground, and Lucia too was gently put down. Meghzaal blinked down at the moonmother quietly, trembling and not daring to make a sound, before slowly collecting himself and rolling up behind Lucia, away from sight. ‘S-sorry.’ He trembled. ‘G-gets out of hand sometimes.’ Lucia shot a glance behind her, flashing her Love a reassuring smile. She then looked at Gibbou again and shifted awkwardly as she looked to the floor. Her tattoos seemed to shrink, fading in color. ”I-I get carried away too.” she sniffled, ”I feel terrible, I’m sorry Gibbou.”
Gibbou frowned. “No, no, it’s alright. I know a thing or two about getting carried away, too, and-... Well, I think I’m starting to understand how those I, uh, carried away are starting to feel. If anything, you at least got my mind on other things, so, uh, thanks.” She offered the two of them a lopsided smile. “Say, uh… Any of you want to just sit and, like, exist? Just take in the peace and sound of the world for a minute?”
Lucia looked up, surprised. She began to nod, ”I- We would love to.” she said. Meghzaal’s hand flowed around Lucia’s arm and he peeked out timidly at Gibbou, before bringing a hand up and covering his face so as not to see the goddess or be seen, and said nothing.
“Great.” The moon goddess went over to a spot in the shade and sat down, leaning backwards with her arms propping her up. She stared outwards at the great prairie and closed her eyes, trying to focus her sensations on the soundscape and scents of the surrounding world. There, she sat with a small smile on her lips.
Lucia walked over to a spot near Gibbou, but kept a respectable distance. She sat down in the sunlight and then beckoned for her Love, who had maintained distance though a tendril of ink remained enwrapped about his Lucia’s arm. At her beckoning, however, he seemed to melt from his place and appeared almost at once about her, in the vague form of robes that clung momentarily to her before congealing by her far side; keeping her between him and the dance-hating goddess who disliked song (not that he blamed her, mind you, or held it against her! Far be he, who knew well woe, from pouring contempt on another’s sorrow!) Lucia took his hand in hers, the tattoos on her skin glowing intensely as they shimmered. The god’s grip tightened around hers and his form pulsed and lost definition briefly, before condensing back into humanoid form. Tiny birds of ink broke away from his back or hair and whistled and sighed about her before disintegrating into clouds away.
Gibbou straightened her back up, crossed her legs and bent her neck slightly forward. She slowed her breathing down until it barely existed anymore and intertwined her fingers in her lap. In contrast to how she had looked the rest of the day, really, she appeared most peaceful here, even in the shade of the baking sun outside. The bard looked out at the prairie, but he did not see as Gibbou saw, or hear as she did.
The world was abuzz with a bursting melody that wept to see them sat idly - here it was singing its soul out every minute, every second, that the world may know the endless song and dance, and here they were, who heard it, sat unmoving and unmoved! If those who heard were thus unmoved, what then those who could not hear? Ink burst from his eyes at the thought and he sighed, and his chest shivered and shook, and his hand tightened around that of his beloved to contain himself from bursting up once again and joining that cosmic melody. But even the sighs of the silent god caused the seed of love and ecstasy to burst in the hearts of the animals and winds and earth all about, and birds fluttered towards them chirruping now by Lucia’s face of sunlit night, perching briefly between the moonmother’s quartz-coloured laurel crown before zipping away and flying off with the god’s rhythmic sighs.
Other creatures approached also - the bison now and now the elephant, the great elk with antlers sprawling like trees upon its head, the spritely gazelle danced towards them and looked upon them with her glistening great eyes as though she too, like Meghzaal, wished to shed ink tears - and they sang their soul-felt heartsong to them; but could the moonmother hear? Or were all but his beloved and he deaf to the stirring song and dance of the cosmos? ‘Oh!’ The god moaned, and was in tearful silence once again.
The moon goddess squinted her eyes further closed. Then even tighter. However, the more the song went on, the harder it was to concentrate on that ever-waning silence. Eventually, she, too, started sobbing quietly, before she finally burst out: “Do they have to sing so sadly?! It’s actually making me depressed!” She pointed at an elephant. “Mister elephant, would you please at least sing in the major scale?”
Lucia looked over at Gibbou with sad eyes. ”You can hear the Worldsong too? What am I saying… Of course you can.” she briefly looked away, ”My Love, when he awoke, the silence made him sad so he awoke everything to the song. Even now, he wishes to be with it. It’s hard for him to be quiet and still.” she looked back at Gibbou. ”I’m so sorry Gibbou, this isn’t how I wanted our first meeting to go.” she said softly, on the verge of tears. She gripped her Love’s hand tighter. The god pressed her hand gently and a quick and liquid smile moved his face, and he planted a kiss upon her shoulder to comfort her.
‘But silence has a music too, sometimes. Here now,’ he breathed deeply and looked out at the prairie, gently shushing, and all around them (though not beyond, for who has the power to shush the Worldsong entire?) the cosmic song began to fade and the animals all hushed and flitted off, and the sunlit Prairie was bathed in a great and baffling silence as spirits held their breath or placed their ethereal hands about their faces to stop the melodious deluge from bursting out.
How still, how silent is the world That once could not but dance and sing - I love when silence is unfurled That great and dreadful breathless thing!
Like crashing waves and roiling skies The singing, soothing wind and breeze And jungles with their great green sighs; The silence has an unheard wheeze.
How still, how silent now we are For silence brings a sweetness too A singing that is, oh by far As rhythmic as the cosmic spew!
Now we may sit in the sun's shade Or winter's moon may wash the moors And we may in the wet sea wade Or lie beneath wide heaven's shores
There in the golden grass along The flowing prairie in light bathed We see in silence winter's song That yet in summer's light is swathed
But I do love the full moon's gaze Just as I love that old sun's smile So let us sit in silent daze And watch and hear it for a while.
And he closened himself to Lucia and watched with trembling hands the sprawling and silent prairie. The kaleidoscopic heavens shifted slowly and turned, and colours came by in their turn and left. They sat there in absolute silence - why, even the natural chirping of birds and crickets, and the rustling of the grass in the breeze, seemed muted as though one were sat upon a comet or a deadstar in the endless silence of the spaces that the sad old moon called home. But eventually Meghzaal’s voice broke the awesome silence. ‘B-but, uh. If you don’t mind me asking,’ he peered at Gibbou from behind Lucia, ‘what has made you so sad?’
“It’s--... Well…” She hung her head. “I just feel like I’m, I’m no good as a goddess, as a guardian of life. All around me, I encounter, or more often, cause pain. I make stuff, but it never seems to be right enough - my trolls were all so sweet until, well, they weren’t, and I don’t know what happened to them anymore.” The inky god perked up at mention of the trolls, “I’m rash, I’m stupid, I’m not even worthy of looking my sister in the eyes, and, and…” Tears like twinkling quartz dripped down in her lap. “My sister does everything so much better than me and, well, everybody loves her. Meanwhile, I’m just here causing trouble. I-... I even ruined your dance!” Her face collapsed into her hands, through which rivers of moonlight flowed like runny glass, accompanied by sobbing to match the earlier worldsong.
Lucia remained quiet, unsure of what to say. She wanted to go to her aunt, to give her an inkling of comfort, but she did not know if it would go well. Gibbou said it herself, she hardly knew her. She put out a hand towards her, but pulled it back as her tears silently flowed. ”You didn’t…” Lucia began, ”There will be other dances.” she went silent again. She then turned to her Love with pleading eyes, as if begging him to do something. She had no idea how to attack that other part, for Gibbou’s heart hurt and she was only mortal. There was perhaps one who could do something, and that was her mother. But was it right to call her? Perhaps not right now. She had to prove to Gibbou that she was her niece, that she could become something more than just a stranger. But how?
Lucia’s pain seemed to reverberate through Meghzaal’s liquid form, her wants and plights clear to his heart - for they were naught but his wants and plights. Effervescent tears bubbled out of his inky eyes and drifted away, forming up and building up before them into a great ocean nightscape. The full moon shone brightly in the scene, and the waves slapped and kicked gently - but for all the sound, it was somehow silent. In nearby shallows a great creature with a terrible visage formed and stood, its maw gawping, and immediately the scene was filled with glorious poetry and song springing from that hideous face and mouth. All at once the sea seemed to buzz with energy and the moon above seemed to shine with a greater radiance, swaying in the black heavens. And a song was born and a music sounded and the seas bubbled and churned as from their depths a great darkness rose.
The darkness sang and the draug sang too, and he seemed to lose himself in song and stepped forth, away from the shallows and into the ocean depths. But he did not sink or drown, but danced on the water and swayed and swirled about a great black tree that was forming - and singing! - out of the sea. And the tree unfurled and burst to unveil a blossoming flower from which emerged a great glowing creature - a mere child - that spoke with a sound so lovely and so sweet that the draug could only laugh with joy and weep. The two sang and the little creature within the inktree swayed and hummed in place, shaking its head gently from side to side.
And soon the draug was not alone, but was accompanied by one, two, three, more! They danced and sang about the tree in a strange moment of coming together for the lonesome trolls. And in the scene Meghzaal grew and the draug were soon no longer just draug, but something changed. The scene shifted as they sang and danced off to the west, and the world burst with colour and sound as the birth of the Worldsong sent the cosmos into an unending deluge of swaying and song, an eternal and joyously agonised melody; and the sky too exploded with eternally shifting colour.
All this that had come about due to the single creation of an inspired moonmother unfurled in ink before them and then- disappeared, leaving nothing but the gently gazing moon in the inky sky, and a song.
(Let me not say HOLDER)
And as the song faded, the inky scene too began to fade until nothing was left but the bright full moon. It swelled briefly before disintegrating into a glorious cloud of colour and joyous sound, and then was gone. The inky god looked shyly over at Gibbou. ‘Y-you didn’t ruin it. The song… the dance… me. Without that singing troll calling me out, I would never have been. If you had not made it, the world would not sing and dance and the sky would not be so… vibrant. And I would never have known Lucia; her love has given life sweetness and… fresh, joyous pain.’ He brought Lucia’s palm to his lips and placed a kiss on it again. ‘The moon - your moon, Gibbou - and your night are muses that cause the hearts of poets and lovers everywhere to swell. Beneath that dark blanket, hear the world’s lovers worship one another - and in worshipping one another they worship you! Hear them pine with words so lovely and so sweet. I have looked upon the sun with joy and watched the restless toil of day, but night has always brought me calm and rest and is the breeding ground of love and poetry. And so for those things, that I with my limited knowledge know, I thank you Gibbou.’
The moon goddess looked up from her palms with huge, round, white pupils. “Do, do you mean it? My… My little draugs did that? They did that for you?” A fresh wave deluged its way down her cheeks and she hastened to rub it away. “Do you mean to say that I, I, my creation helped create those, those dancing lights in the sky? Helped teach those animals how to sing? Helped…” She rubbed some more tears away and took Lucia’s hand. “... Helped my niece find love? All because of my sweet, little draugs, and, and, and my moon?”
Meghzaal’s colours shifted and he smiled, covering his eyes with a shaking hand and hiding behind Lucia once again. ‘The pain that wracks you, moonmother, lies to you. I-It is not a pain you can mix with joy - i-it is not…’ he looked to Lucia, ‘love. It is a pain that wants to destroy you with its lies. Oh! You mustn’t let it!’ There was a sudden desperation and intensified fearful trembling to his rhythmic voice, ‘you m-must fight it off - and the world itself s-sings and dances in defiance of those lies. Y-you don’t need my words for proof, the world itself is proof.’
“So I’ve done something… I’ve done something! In your face, Firinn, I--!” She paused for a moment. It seemed as though her fervor had cast her to her feet and sent one of her fists up into the air. She retracted it and shrunk somewhat. “I guess… I guess he was trying to warn me, huh, about these exact feelings.” She turned to the other two. “Lucia, mister Meghzaal, I’ve drowned you in so much emotional baggage that shouldn’t even exist, and probably not made your day any better by doing so; and yet, the two of you helped me without me even asking. Is, is there anything I can do for you in return?”
A small smile came upon Lucia's lips as she shook her head. “I'm just happy to help you, aunt Gibbou." she said. "And please, it's alright to cry every now and then, whether alone or not. It's good to lean on others in times of need." she said, subsequently leaning back into her Love, who blushed a thousand hues of red and pink and brought his hands about her, placing his fingers on the tattooed Hand of Ink & Poetry that decorated her navel.
‘I-if I may, moonmother... decorate you too.’ He mumbled inaudibly into the back of Lucia’s head. Gibbou blushed.
“What… What kind of decorations did you have in mind?” She pulled down the sleeves on her arms to reveal her numerous white lines and markings, almost like tattoos in themselves. “If you’d like to colour me like Lucia, I’m afraid I’m already marked.” She suddenly snapped her fingers as if remembering something. “Although… Do you know what you could decorate?” She pulled forth the horn on her hip. “This!” The inky god looked up and observed the strange horn and shivered.
‘A- a cup?’ He asked, extending an inky tendril towards it to examine it. ‘A cup with a wondrous song. Ah- ah!’ He shook and convulsed around Lucia, who giggled, ‘it overflows! Why have so many added to its tune and song?’
“Oh, it’s because this is Hir, the druid maker! It lets mortals perform miracles in the names of a select few gods so that mortality can keep itself safe when we can’t! To make sure this power is wielded by the nicest and kindest, too, me and Orey added a little piety clause - all power must be saved up from doing good deeds. Neat, right? Got loads of companions who’ve added their power to this thing!”
The tendril of ink flowing about the druidic horn curled up above and squeezed itself so that two ink droplets of shifting colour dripped inside, immediately causing the horn to glow a thousand different tints before returning to its original colour. But every now and then a sudden pulse of wild veins of a thousand different hues rippled across it, eventually forming into the unmistakable form of the Hand of Ink & Poetry, before disappearing again. ‘Poetry is a sickness, and it is a cure - the former’s madness, the latter love that’s pure. To the druids of the world I give this wild madness - or what all will think is madness; a tongue that speaks with poetry that they may be friends to the Worldsong, and so that they may learn the cosmic song and dance also. I give them, too, the Hand of Ink & Poetry and all the arts of ink for them to uncover, its glyphs and its carvings on rock or skin. I give them these things to uncover and make.’ And with that the tendril withdrew and the ink god looked at Gibbou timidly, his thoughts returning to decorating her. ‘I, uh. I don’t ask to decorate you as I have my beloved - t-that is her honour alone. But p-perhaps an ink of... night and moonlight. Between your shoulder blades or on the nape of your neck. M-maybe that will go well?’
Gibbou’s blush deepened. “W-well… Since, since you’re so pushy, I guess I have no choice! Between the shoulder blades, then. Oh, and thanks for the blessing on the Hir. Druids’ll be, like, the best protectors and advisors out there! This’ll be incredible!” She giggled happily to herself, only joy filling her dried, reddened eyes now. She hung the horn from her hip again and loosened her shirt, turning away from the two others before letting the shirt drop a little down the back to reveal a back of blueberry skin with moonlight markings going straight down the spinal cord in two parallel lines.
The god rose, taking his beloved with him, and flowed towards the moonmother where he gently set her and himself down, staring at the two parallel lines. He sat looking for a long time, waiting on the sun to set and the three moons to show themselves in the heavens, so that when the prairie entered the depths of the darkest night he began to weave an obsidian ink from the dark of night that congealed in one hand, and into the other the twisting light of the three moons curled up and blossomed. Only then did he begin, whispering inaudible verses into the little spaces between them and every now and then trembling and burying his head into Lucia’s hair before continuing.
He eased the parallel lines already present into the new tattoo, coaxing them both into new forms with the moonink, and then applied the ink of night to bring about a weaving tapestry of moonlight and darkness that came together to form the Hearteye and the Hand, the very same pattern that decorated his beloved’s abdomen.
The Hand of Ink & Poetry and the Hearteye
Lucia had, in the meantime, been preoccupied looking up at the newest moon. It hadn’t been there last night and it looked so… Strange. Her eyes eventually found their way back to Gibbou and she gave an audible gasp as she looked at the ink. “So pretty, auntie.” she said. “You’ve done good work my Love, as always.” she said again. Her own tattoos grew and expanded as they shimmered with warmth. The god blushed his hues of red and pink and mumbled inaudibly - not as pretty (if only as pretty!) as you, my dear, my dear - into Lucia’s shoulder as he lifted Gibbou’s garb back up to cover her.
“It turned out nice?” asked the moon goddess timidly and stringed together the neck of her shirt again. “Thanks. Thank you so much, mister Meghzaal. What will it... will it do anything? Or is it more for decorative purposes?”
‘I w-will tell you. But, uh. What is a… mister?’ Asked the nonplussed bard. Gibbou blinked.
“Oh. Uh… Good question.” She paused just long enough to make it awkward. “I don’t know. I’ve just kinda always said it. I, I can stop if you want me to.”
‘Oh! I see.’ He closed his eyes for a few moments and hummed before opening them again, ‘then I will call you srita Gibbou.’ Then he turned to Lucia and put a finger to his lips, frowning. ‘It doesn’t feel good to call you by anything but your name,’ he smiled at last, ‘and I think it only right.’ With that he turned back to the moonmother. ‘I will tell you what the mark I’ve placed on you will do - it will have your back! Whenever you weaken, whenever that lie returns to destroy you, it will shine bright for you - with all the good and purity you bring to the world, and with all you have given reason to sing and dance and adore the gazing moon. It will always have your back, srita Gibbou.’ His hands were trembling and his smile shook, and so he quickly brought a hand to his face and coiled himself up behind Lucia. ‘S-sorry!’
“That’s…” she started and tried her best to swallow another wave of deluges. “That’s the nicest thing someone beyond my sister’s ever done for me.” She stood up and stepped into the moonlight. She let it trickle down and bathe her in its luminessence. She held out one of her hands, and the light encapsulating her coalesced there into a small, white stone that then swallowed its own light and became dark as the dome above them. She turned and handed the stone to the pair. “Here… Let me return one of the many favours you’ve done me today.”
Lucia tentatively took it within her hand and looked it over. ”Oh how pretty.” Lucia gawked before looking up at Gibbou. ”What’s it do, auntie?” she asked with a smile.
“This is the Nightstone! I figured, y’know, since you two like dancing and singing in the light of the moon, then I’d give you something to help keep you awake.” She leaned forward a little and wiggled a finger warningly. “But only for one night, okay? You need to make sure you get loads of sleep outside of this one use. Using it more than once a week will mess with your circadian rhythm, got it?”
Lucia’s eyes widened as she showed it to her Love. “Oh this will be perfect! Thank you aunt Gibbou!” she said with genuine joy in her voice. “I’ll remember to get sleep, I have a feeling we’ll be using this a lot.” she giggled. The god exploded into a deep crimson behind Lucia and swiftly dissipated into a cloud that seemed to plant kisses all over the body of his beloved before congealing back into inky robes about her. Inky birds joyously chirped their thanks and adoration around the moonmother for a few brief seconds before diving into Lucia and joining the god worn by his beloved. Lucia giggled as this happened, a wide smile on her face as she stood up to face Gibbou.
”I’m glad I got to meet my aunt.” she said. ”I… Uh… Hug?” she asked unsurely, opening her arms up.
“D’aaaw… Of course!” She wrapped her arms tightly around Lucia’s torso and giggled. She rubbed her cheek softly against hers and whispered, “You really are Orey’s daughter, huh; I can tell from your hugs.”
Lucia squeezed her back tightly, the tattoos on her face growing larger and warmer as they pulsed. Gibbou was soft, and carried with her a sense of peace. It was a wonderful feeling. ”Thank you, auntie. I feel so loved.” she sniffled.
“You are - both of you are.” She squeezed tighter for an instant before pulling away and gave the dark sky above a smile. “I suppose I should start heading back now. I should deliver this horn soon.” She turned to smile at the two. “I guess this is goodbye for now, huh?”
With a sad smile Lucia nodded. “For now, but I have a feeling we will meet again. I wish you a very fond farewell, aunt Gibbou.” she said with a grin. The moon goddess offered a nod to the both of them.
“Don’t worry. It’s not like the gods are disappearing anytime soon!” With that, she set off. Lucia and her beloved watched the moonmother go, and the god tightened around her. No, they were not going to be disappearing anytime soon.
Part I; or, In Which Firinn Is A Dick
Firinn offers a solution to Gibbou’s trouble with her artifact, and also offers a (poorly received) insight into her personality. Gibbou tries not to take the words to heart, but flies off to her next destination with many thoughts weighing her down.
Part II; or, In Which We Ignore All That Poetry
She travels to the Prairie of Sol where she finds the Sunlit Temple and Lucia. Gibbous is uber-depressed and shocked at Lucia’s claim that she is Oraelia’s daughter. Gibbou asks Lucia what she thinks of her - seeking reassurance after her encounter with Firinn, but Lucia’s kind response does not appease the goddess who suspects she’s not being honest - because they’d only just met! Gibbou goes to leave in a huff, but Lucia halts her by offering to introduce her to her beloved. Meghzaal emerges and tries to cheer everyone up with a good song and dance, but Gibbou is grumpy and tells him to shut the bloody hell up, which he promptly does and curls up in a foetal position behind Lucia. TT--TT They then sit in silence watching the Prairie, but it just ain’t quiet enough for Gibbou, so Meghzaal tells everything to shush for a bit. When they’ve been all quiet and peaceful for some time, he asks her why she so flippin’ depressed like. She says she’s said ‘cause she’s a horrible terrible bad thing, nobody loves her, she’s a mess, she can’t create nuffink properly; she’s just everything terrible in the world. Ufft. Lucia tries to reassure her, but is feeling a bit stumped and considers calling in the cavalry - Oraelia! But she doesn’t do it quite yet and turns to the resident poet. He puts on a nice show for them, an epic theatrical performance showcasing how awesome Gibbou is and how just one of her creations - the draug - has completely changed the face of the world for the better. It also shows how the mere presence of Gibbou’s moon is cause for joy and inspiration everywhere. This cheers up Gibbou and she asks how she can repay them - Lucia tells her ain’t nothing she needs to do, this is what family is for. Meghzaal is like, let me draw on you. Gibbou is like ._. wat? Uh. Why don’t you draw on this cup I have instead? And so Meghzaal blesses the Hir with many bardic and inkly things. Then he turns back to Gibbou and is like, lemme draw on you bro. She’s like damn dude, you pushy. Fine. So he tattoos a hand between her shoulder blades. ‘Wat’s it do, mister?’ Says Gibbous. ‘Wat’s a mistah?’ asks Megha. ‘...>-< I’unno.’ Says Gibbous. ‘Okay. I’m callin you srita!’ says Megha. And then he unveils that the hand is an awesome new anti-depressant. Gibbou is really touched by that and makes them a Nightstone so they can stay up aaaall night ‘singing’ and ‘dancing’ wink wink. But only once a week, ‘cause we gotta keep it real. After that Gibbou goes off dramatically to her moon, leaving behind a very happy couple.
Lucia: Earns 5 Prestige due to over 10k post bringing her total to 20 Prestige Orb: Earns 5 Prestige due to over 10k post The Hir: Earns 5 Prestige due to over 10k post
Fìrinn:
0MP (Two Free Title Weight: Reflections) --
Prayer and Reflection II: Enhance the Hir so that it may be found in the reflective surface of a freshwater lake when earnest prayer and pious behaviour calls to it through a dedicated ceremony.
Gibbou: 1MP/1DP
-1DP: Create artifact - The Nightstone: A small, black stone that blesses its user with the following power: All-Nighter I: Allows the user to stay up for one night without the need to rest. Subsequent uses over multiple nights will instead make the user tire during the day and eventually need to sleep the whole day off to stay awake during the night. This effect takes seven days and seven nights to normalise regardless of whether one has used the stone multiple times or not. (⅖ for the Respite port).
Meghzaal: 0 MP | 2 DP | 5 MP towards Song | 3 DP towards Tattoos/Glyphs - 2 DP to Grant the Hir a Title: Draught of Ink & Poetry I - Those who drink from the druidic horn will gain a proclivity towards Poetry that many will view as madness. They’re likely to speak in poetic riddles and, due to the natural affinity to the Worldsong this will create, will come to hear voices that only other enlightened artists can (contributing to their perceived madness). This eases the realisation of Spiritsinging to druids, but this title does not grant Spiritsinging. This title also blesses druids with knowledge of the Hand of Ink & Poetry and the arts of ink, glyphs, and tattoos - i.e. they will know that ink can be made of near anything and that the substances that go into making ink can bring about related qualities and traits, and will know how to tattoo themselves and others and draw glyphs. (2 DP towards Art)
- 1 MP (reduced to 0 by Domain) to carry out some other godly feat: Carve a tattoo of the Hand of Ink & Poetry and the Hearteye, made of moon-ink and night-ink, between Gibbou’s shoulder blades. This tattoo will have Gibbou’s back so that whenever she weakens, and whenever the lies of sadness and depression return to destroy her, it will protect her by re-emphasising all the good and purity she brings to the world, and with all she has given reason to sing and dance, either due to the inspiration of the moon or by other means.
- 1 MP (reduced to 0 by Domain) to create an extraordinary species: Inklings are little creatures that float around the Temple of the Sun as little blobs and tendrils of ink. When people approach and attempt to communicate with them, they generally react by putting on a generally beautiful and poetic mini-theatrical display, similar to what Meghzaal showed Lucia and Gibbou.
Gibbou & Meghzaal:
- 2 MP (reduced to 0 by Portfolios) to carry out some other godly feat: Night is moontime, and will now be imbued with the combined energies of Gibbou and Meghzaal; it will always be a time when poets, lovers, dancers, and all people generally, are more inspired towards artistic production.
Okarzunkaxoxondrom the Glorious and Ever-Victorious
Okarzunkaxoxondrom sat in place, unmoving, his limbs curled up beneath him and his multitude of eyes wide open. 'Go get a clam Okarz. Go get a lobster Okarz. Go catch a fucking seaweed Okarz.' The relatively tiny vrool muttered venomously to himself. The rather young vrool was of a generation that knew little of the olden days of freedom (except for the heroic tales told and retold), before the vroolix race was all of it subjugated and brought low beneath the yoke of one enterprising tyrant or another. Gone were the days of liberty, when a vrool was born free and lived free and could carve for himself a territory and call himself king of himself. Now it was go get a salmon, Okarz and come wipe my beak because I'm an imbecilic sea-slug that should be swiftly and mercilessly exterminated along with all my progeny and whosoever holds an inkling of relation to my mishappen fucking visage, Okarz. It was a fucking disgrace.
The great race of vroolix, terrors of the deep, glorious givers of battle, reduced to a grovelling bunch of over-inflated minions and parasites with far too much fat and little muscle. Why, such behemoths had no need to give battle, they merely had to roll over (if they could manage the feat!) and what passed for battle among them was done. Of course, Okarz did not blame the thousand and one vying tyrants for wishing to further their power and influence through the subjugation of others - indeed, it was efficient and intelligent - but in so doing they had destroyed that old world of nobility and glory, the very world that gave these tyrants their nobility and glory, so that now there could no longer be magnificent vroolix. The age of magnificence was at an end, and this was the age of grovelling and humiliation. It was a fucking disgrace, the destruction and abasement of the vroolix race!
And so, Okarz did blame the tyrants for this despicable state of affairs, just as much as he blamed every vrool that was content to grovel and live in the shade of another. Despised is the master, despised is the slave! - that was Okarz's principle in life, and by the many-tentacled-progenitor-whose-name-may-only-be-whispered, he would die by it. 'Oi! Okarz.' Ah, a fatuous codbrain deigns to creep into my resplendent presence. 'Okarz you fucking molluskspleen, stop mumbling to yourself and get the fuck here right now!' 'Of course, glorious Suxuklixuc, I was just keeping an eye out for that salmon you wanted!' 'You useless piece of seaweed excrement!' The bulging Suxuk gurgled, striking Okarz between his sets of eyes, 'stop lazing about and get to work!' Okarz bowed and took the beatings, stroking the bigger vrool's ego with words of praise and submission. 'As you say, oh vast and terrible Suxuklixuc, oh mercy smiter of vroolix in the fray, tearer of limbs, you of the many and endless prize-beaks,' the words seemed to mollify the larger vrool, who gave something akin to a harrumph and left the tiny Okarz alone.
The noble, glorious, and ever-victorious Okarzunkaxoxondrom drew his tendrils beneath himself, glorying in his triumph as his hated foe receded from view. Oh, for the days of old! Oh for the days of the noble and magnificent of the vroolix race - it was among those great ancient ones that such as he belonged, not among the impish mockeries of today! It was a fucking disgrace.
The mighty Okarz sits reflecting on the glorious days of old, when vroolix were free and not ruled by tyrants. A principled and noble vrool, Okarz shall bring down the tyrannical order through his brave and courageous rebellion against the status quo.
Note: The term 'vrool' is singular, plural, and refers to the whole group. The term 'vroolix' is, in fact, incorrect.
The Kavijama | the thing of ink & poetry | The Hibrach
Filled with inspiration by the Worldsong, Meghzaal goes on a semi-crazed aurora-esque storm of ink, song, and poetry the world over. He sweeps up many creations as he goes - alminaki men, celestial sheep, itztli, leeoli wisps, magnus pods, yetis, various trees (alder, hawthorne, lonethorn, are specifically mentioned), human women, and carries them all off to Kubrajzar. The yetis of Kubrajzar's mountains are without horns and rather than being white they are mottled black and white. They are not as crazed or ravenous as their counterparts in the anchor, and those who live nearby generally offer up their dead to the mountain. The trees are deposited across Kubrajzar, and the magnus pods are seen to explode like shooting stars, shedding spores and seeds across the landscape. The sheep and leeoli are deposited offscreen, but they are now present on the continent. The itztli go off on their own, probably to form their own community in the central marshy jungles of Kubrajzar, and the alminaki men and human women congregate around each other stay by the central inner sea, likely forming their own community (of eventual human-alminaki hybrids) there.
Might Expenditure: 0 DP - Streak the Sky with Colour: The heavens are no longer blue by day and black by night, but permanently aurora-esque. Clouds remain white/grey or orange/pink/purple/red by sunset. 1 MP - Grant Magic: Grant the new sapients of Kubrajzar the ability to hear the Worldsong and Spiritsing - they do not necessarily realise the latter yet (1 MP Towards Song portfolio)
Bookkeeping: 0 MP remaining / 5 DP remaining / 5/5 MP towards Song Portfolio
When the Worldsong burst the silence of creation and breathed life into all that was, the Hibrach wept for joy. And that great thing of ink - that effervescent spew of poetry and spattering of song - closed all senses bar the fervid need for art and went listening and sighing the world over. It swirled and sang with the singing of creation, and the many giants that dwelled on Kubrajzar and those singing trolls - ah, brother troll! - gazed upward as the many-coloured muse varnished the sky, and some swayed, and some reached forth and moaned (and why shouldn't they moan and sway with the song their voices and their spirits sang?)
Well then, that one birthed of ink and melded of the darkness of the deeps went moaning and hearing, across the worldwater in a great slow spiral - listen to the chorus of the waves calling to their inconstant celestial mistress (You beckon us daily, then rebuke only / Does't please your heart to leave us so lonely? / With rebukes you scatter us off to the deep / And dying, we rise for your harvester's sweep / Your strikes and your rebukes are better by far / Than the beckonings of creation are!) -, across the threescore or more isles, and across a continent that teemed with life. And as that raging, swirling, storming cloud of spattering colour and canorous sound bellowed hither and thither listening and sighing, breathing and crying, painting idly and deftly dyeing, there were caught up in it a myriad of beings and creations. Here a feather-haired desertman was entangled, and there a second - a third. A wooly leaper, having long surrendered the hope of reaching the coveted stars, leaps and flies. It flies and flies - and this time there is no return to land, but flight is destiny, and to baa is not to baa but is to pluck the cords of the heavens. A great lizard came screeching, torn from the safehaven of its godmaster - but if ironwilled you be little itztli, come let us set you free beyond your people's sea. And wisps of blinking light, their spirits huffing and puffing at all this exhilaration and excitement of light and sound. The great white stalker of the world's fortress gazed at the psychedelic delirium enveloping all above and all about, and it stood firm that stalwart beast as the inks whipped at him and tore his horns, and tore him too from his frosty home. Here a great flying pod went whirling off its decreed course, its spirit loosing songs of hysteria as it gave itself fully to the intoxicating celestial outflow of the great surging thing of ink & poetry. And oh! Do not think that the slumbering trees rooted to the depths of the earth did not wake - watch them stir! Watch their roots tremble! Watch their leaves rise and watch their branches sway to the cosmic song - here a root bursts, earth scatters, bark groans, trees fly when the cup wells over. And if thus the Alder, Hawthorne, Lonethorn, what then of that fleeting creature, man? Into the song she glides, hair whipping, soul gushing the universal anthem.
(Beside the stream HOLDER)
In that great maelstrom of visual and auditory liberation, all faded. In those swirling bodies there was not a single I to be seen or heard, only orgastic unity. And when at last that sudden and world-shattering thing of ink & poetry faded out and utterly disappeared the beneficiaries and victims of its global raid sat dazed and at a loss, bathing in a post-epiphanic stew, terrified of moving or even breathing so as not to lose whatever this was. Terrified to continue the banal life they had known before their minds and hearts were flung open and all the barricades and great mountains they had carefully built to keep this out were decimated and rent asunder.
A yeti moaned, a desertman sighed, a lizard hissed, a woman wiped away her tears and - ah, there it was. I, I, I. It had returned, that glorious I. They took in the new world - the coloured sky, the unfamiliar boggy terrain, the mountains that rose up not far, the seemingly endless expanse of water before them, the trees everywhere. Life was abuzz here too, insects were upon them almost immediately and the sounds (the roar of a distant river, the living forest, the gentle ebbing and flowing of the waves), oh the sounds - the whispering of the waters, the muttering of the trees, the bizarre tune of the strange insects that joyed to suck their blood, and more distant too - other songs, other tunes. Oh, it sent a shiver down their spines. No no, banal life there'd be no more. The god had torn open their hearts, the inner eye was unblinking and welcomed the eternal deluge. Their cups would overflow.
The yetis howled (a numbing sound), and the smaller folk looked up at them - any instinct to flee or fear was gone. A knowing glance, moments of understanding, and the lithe keepers of the mountains ambled off peaceably. In the distance great multi-coloured shooting stars zipped across the heavens, and even from here their great sound could be heard - pewww... pewwwwww... pewwwwwww. But the I had returned, and ah, what a terrible thing was the I, for even now the lizardfolk, those itztli, gathered one about the other and, with a glance to the other smallfolk, set out on their own into the jungles. The human women and the desertmen watched them go sadly.
A stomach rumbled. Somiti sighed and rubbed her tummy. The song of the world fed the soul and filled the cup, but oh! the glutt'nous stomach asked for more. And as though hearing her silent song, fish threw themselves upon the shore and the desertmen and the human women ate. And it seemed natural to them then that they should stay together - why yes, damn the I.
The drighina have discovered the westernmost continent and dub it Kubrajzar (lit. the Great Land). The Worldsong comes about - essentially animism style spirits occupy everything that exists. Anything that exists now contains a soul/s. These souls can be heard by those who train themselves (i.e. become Spiritsingers). The spirits communicate in beautiful song, and are communed with in song too - hence the term Spiritsinger for those who are trained to hear and commune with them. Communing with spirits through Spiritsinging allows the singer to request the spirit do things for them. If the Spiritsinger is skilled in the poetic arts and has a beautiful voice, the spirit is more likely to carry out their request. Spirits everywhere love poetry and song, and so will actively protect a singing poet from harm (e.g. if people pelt a singing poet with stones, the stones will stop before hitting him unless the spirits are overpowered). This does not make singing poets completely invulnerable. This is a general thing that applies to anyone who is singing poetry beautifully, and the person doesn't need to be a spiritsinger or even magically attuned.
Might Expenditure: 1 MP - Create the Worldsong: Animism-style Spirits in all things, they communicate in song and are communed with in song. (1 MP towards Song portfolio). 1 MP - Create Song Magic: Spiritsinging, a learned ability that allows one to hear the Worldsong and communicate with spirits. (1 MP Towards Song portfolio)
And for all the singing and joy that accompanied the coming of the Hibrach into the world, and for all his unending lyrics and passion-infused verses, the world was awful empty and awful quiet. The poet flowed across the waters in the company of a troll singing in a westerly direction, who in time set foot upon a great land. That first possessor of the pioneering spark would be followed by many a wandering drighina in the days that came - and in their beauteous tongue they would call it Kubrajzar. They were not a race drawn to company, these drighina, neither their own nor that of others, but as they came - one by one, day by passing day - they could find no other name for it; and one after another they named it - Kubrajzar! - and each bethought himself the first to name it so and each bethought himself the first to behold its greatness and beauty in wonderment.
Before the tree of ink I prayed When I awoke to song And gloried long beneath its shade There the bless'd among There with the god I drank a while A drought of poetry And learned from him great art and style As none before did see- But standing on this wave-torn cliff An ant beneath the skies, See jungles strewn, I wonder if Among the poets wise There ever was a tongue or hand That rightly named one stone or strand That was not Kubrajzar!
The traveller, he travelled far He braved the wat'ry deep His heart with verses was ajar It climbed the cliff face steep Right out the lake from whence flesh sprang Arose the newborn art And with the stream he danced and sang The bidding of his heart: Oh kick the earth and kiss the star And show them what true passions are For you have seen the Kubrajzar Oh see the Kubrajzar!
The world, you ink-eyed, open-hearted ones, can only listen to so much song and view so much dance before it is ready to burst. Have pity on the stone, brother troll, for there too is a song waiting on a listener. The world trembles beneath the weight of its songs - hear the stone, hear the wind, brother troll, and hear the grasshopper. The world has songs aplenty for those versed in the listening arts - and the world, brother troll, is a teacher of the listening arts. Oh it has done nothing but listen, brother troll, it has listened till the cup filled to the brim; you hear only what spills over the rim. There is a lesson there, brother troll; sing only when your cup is full to overflowing - the World has song enough to fill the cups of present, past, and future bards.
The singing of a Draug awakens the Dirgelord. In the midst of the sea a tree of ink arises within which is formed the nascent poet of the gods. The soulsong comes into being, and the singing Draug is the first of a new species of troll, the Drighina. The Drighina have overflowing hair of seaweed that covers their faces, and the sound of their voice inspires immediate cathartic relief - the more burdened by worries and woe a person is, the more intense the experience. Naturally, those constantly exposed to Drighina singing will stop being affected with such intensity after some time, though hearing it again after a long time may bring about cathartic relief once more. The Drighina are by nature curious and, like their Draug cousins, good-natured. They are solitary, however, and extremely shy - even of one another. Unlike the Draug, they prefer watery habitats and may be found near rivers and the coast, or in bogs and other wet environments. They are capable of living both in water and on land. They are monogamous and will only reveal their faces to their life-partner. It is very rare to find a Drighina couple, as they retire to the ocean depths on finding their life-partner, and so it is even rarer to hear the song they sing to one another - known as the soulsong. The soulsong is said to heal all ailments in the listener, and one versed in the arts of ink can even capture it and use it in ink. The tongue of a Drighina who has sung the soulsong has many properties, though harvesting it is said to bring about great misfortune and the enmity of all Drighina.
Might Expenditure: 1 MP - Create Subspecies: The Drighina. (1 MP towards Song portfolio). 1 MP - Grant Drighina Special Ability: The Soulsong. (1 MP Towards Song portfolio)
The singing troll did not intend to make a god. But the song had spoken to a higher power, and the clouds had blackened and the depths of the oceans clenched as all about was foam and darkness. Foam and darkness, yes, and black skies and roiling earth and sand, but there was no silence. Oh there was a shaking in the heavens and a shaking in the earth and it was something mighty and it was something loud. But don't for a moment think that it was mere noise - oh no, this was a strumming of the strings of the earth, a blowing of the flutes of the piled-up firmaments, the seashells on the seafloors sprang and clapped in synchrony with those on the seashores.
Sing, sing brother troll, call on your beloved - your beloved hears. Oh she was not listening for you, but your singing awoke her and now she listens and now she hears and pines - oh brother troll, she yearns for you; sing! And don't think it strange if in euphoria you should walk on water or walk on air - don't think it strange if the mists should swirl about you and dance; oh don't think it strange if a great darkness should arise from the waters followed by great light, it is not strange, not strange at all, brother troll. Dance around the inky tree brother, dance and twirl, whirl - spin, brother, sing, chant, loose your soul; how will she come, brother, if you don't put your soul into the song? And if you spin around the tree you should not find it strange to wonder and to think (even as you sing and pine for her, brother) - is it you who spins and twirls or is it the tree? We're all spinning, brother troll, we're all singing; sing and the black tree of ink is black no more for you will see the heart that begins to grow when you put your soul into the song.
Twirling in a one-troll throng, basking in the nascent song
The singing troll did not intend to make a god, but stood on water, in mist, before the great tree of ink and darkness, within which was the creature of shifting colours and beauteous sound, he could not deny the divine Face. Oh and you shake, brother troll, you weep for joy and grief. It is glorious to sing and glorious to see as if after a lifetime's yearning - and oh, it is not a face of ink and darkness.
They taught me tears, I scarce knew them before I wish they taught me how to smile and soar They nourished me on childhood love for her Then weaned my soul and left me in her myrrh! Don't think I dance when I shake among you Don't think my trembling joy, that is not true: The slaughtered bird runs dancing out of view.
Amiable. Articulate. Benevolent. Calm. Captivating. Caring. Charismatic. Colourful. Compassionate. Contemplative. Creative. Dedicated. Dramatic (in the throes of poetic output). Eloquent. Forgiving. Generous. Idealistic. Imaginative. Incorruptible. Insightful. Observant. Passionate (in the throes of poetic output). Perceptive. Perfectionist. Protective. Reflective. Romantic. Sentimental. Serious. Ascetic. Enigmatic. Retiring. Melancholic. Secretive. Suspicious. Somewhat eccentric and mad.
Does not take too well to insults, and though unlikely to react immediately he will remember them. Is very generous to those he perceives as being in need. He is repulsed by the idea of betraying those who have placed their trust in him, though this revulsion is subject to a variety of other factors (particularly the power the person in question wields and their degree of vulnerability to betrayal). Generally respects those who have greater wisdom and knowledge. May not always declare his disapproval, but may certainly work silently against things he does disapprove of. Readily forgives those who sincerely seek forgiveness. Holds corruption by the powerful in the lowest regard. Actively keeps people at a distance. Would never insist on being repaid, but certainly respects those who do repay him - it is a show of gratitude, and gratitude is a good trait. Unlikely to be in constant communication with others, very likely to disappear for long periods unless sought out. Will actively contribute to the world - from a distance. If fellow gods were endangered by an external enemy, he would likely defend them unto death as a principle. Despite this, he likely does not trust other gods and likewise feels distrusted by them, and so would never expect them to aid him in his hour of need. Such would certainly surprise him. He only has a vague respect for the laws established by the gods and will only abide by them if it suits him. He readily expects to be shunned - that is the fate of artists. He would not seek positions of authority amongst the gods, as authority corrupts, unless thrust by others into it. In times of need, he is the self-sacrificing type. He has no great respect for those in authority generally speaking. When he feels he has done wrong, he will actively seek to make amends, though he would not make himself beholden to any kind of 'judge'. He has no issue expressing subversive and revolutionary sentiments. He strongly believes that wealth should be used to help the unfortunate. He has no qualms with cheating the wealthy. Meghzaal's ambition is to fill the world with ink, poetry, and inspiration, opening up the ability to express to mortals. He wants to be the ultimate muse, but in many ways, he is also in pursuit of a muse. For what muse does the muse himself have?
ＤＯＭＡＩＮ， ＰＯＲＴＦＯＬＩＯ ＆ ＲＥＡＬＭ
DOMAIN of INK. A substance used to mark out images, words, and meanings. Ink does not occur in a ready-for-use form naturally and must be combined with other materials to truly become ink. There is no particular recipe for ink production, with different kinds of inks and colours being made up of different substances. What makes ink into ink is its ultimate purpose and usage: marking surfaces, putting down meaning. In that sense, ink is a catalyst, much like spoken words, allowing for the transferral of thoughts and feelings into the physical world. Ink holds thought, it holds emotion, and it transfers it. A master of the ways of ink knows how to make use of ink to best convey the substance of an image or words - what colours to use, what type of ink, what substances to mix in. And when the correct ink is combined with the correct meanings, the result may seem magical to the uninitiated.
PORTFOLIO of POETRY. Poetry, it is said, is one of the ancient arts, and it begins as do all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the world. It emanates from the highest happiness or the deepest sorrow, from experiences with love, war, tragedy, and the myriad of occurrences individuals, societies, and civilisations go through. It may bolster the status quo and those who hold power, or it may act as the lifeblood of rebellion and revolution. Poetry may enlighten and uplift consciousness, or it may be such as to condemn individuals and peoples to darkness, willful ignorance, and cultural death. Meghzaal is the poetic spark and muse, the spirit which breathes into the hearts and minds of mortals so as to inspire them with words that form on their tongues but emanate from a higher plain; words that inspire action and passion and life, and words that may well kill for what they contain of misery.
REALM of GLOSSOLALIA. Glossolalia is the abode of grief and sorrow, of love and joy also, and of the beauties and horrors of life and death. It is the abode of potential and inspiration awaiting cataclysmic release. It is a formless inky space that carries all those within it off to a place beyond sight - indeed, the corporeal disappears - and awakens within them the spirit and the spark of inspiration. Only gods know it as Glossolalia, to the denizens of Galbar it is simply the Place of Laughter and of Tears. The Saxus Connection: Where Glossalalia and Saxus meet, ink cannot be distinguished from the eternal darkness of the deep, but those initiated in the ways of ink and poetry may see the smoky letters and verses that waft from the unknown chasms of the ocean's depths. The Thousand Rivers of Pain Connection: Ink and verses of lovelorn and fidelistic poetry form in the rivers of the love goddess' realm, and float off towards Glossalalia. The Dark Side of the Moon Connection: Ink and Night meet and become indistinguishable from one another, the horrors of the night giving rise to monsters of ink, only for the utter peace of it to settle them down again. Somewhere in the calm and fear of the night lies one of the secrets of inspiration, for many a poet and artist will find that the best of their writings and poetics are made under the blanket of the night.
ＦＯＲＭＳ ＆ ＡＶＡＴＡＲ
A man in white enrobed, crowned with a laurel wreath. The flesh is inky and amorphous, colours changing and facial age shifting from passionate youth to the zenith of the middle years, thence to wise old age.
An inky darkness that exhibits shapes and forms. To those initiated to the madness of poetry, the god appears in many glorious colours, and his Face - heart-rending in its sadness, enlightening in its wisdom, captivating in its beauty, frightful in its ugliness, elating in its ecstasy - is made to shine on them, and is the greatest poetic muse.
A shifting shade, formed from the darkness of the deeps hidden beneath the ocean waves, that descends upon the heads of men and causes to burst therefrom words locked away in their hidden depths.
Lord Zee
BBeast
DracoLunaris
Frettzo
Cyclone
Vec
Torack
