NationStates Jolt Archive

Sirens of Titan ~ South Coast

The full moon cast its barren glow upon the cold Southern waters of the Gel^vesh ocean. Ice bergs freely floated past in the arctic desert. Winter was a savage foe here, the cold Southern waters would come each year in vengeance, when the sun rotated towards the North the ice would attempt to follow.

Just free of a small land mass in this Southern region of the greater Ocean of Galrell, life would return. Life would force itself into what was considered a dead realm, where only the outcast and banished would move to, only, in their greatest need, only in their greatest hope.

From the cold waters of the Gel^vesh the Kyrillian Guild would emerge, its presence a testament to the power of the higher path, a testament to their knowledge and doctrines......

Kyrallia ~ Imrildian

“Hurry to the Northern gate, the High Lord demands our presence!” A lone magician screeched above the toils of battle. Running along the battlements Guild Master Hetil waved off incoming arrow fire with a flick of his hand. Noticing several siege towers lumbering towards his section of the wall he raised his hands in calculated anger, and cast a spell favoured by the warrior cast, mindstrike. From around his chosen area a grey mist would rise, consuming its prey mercilessly, devouring and destroying it would consume the minds of the unlucky chosen and almost instantly they would be no more than beasts. Turning away after finishing his spell Hetil heard the satisfying screams of the mad and deranged, no one would be using those towers for a long time.... Continuing in haste he passed the Western gate, yet still more towers were assailing the walls, the guild was powerful but with these numbers in opposition their chances of victory would be remote. Casting a firewall he sent hundreds into flames, their screams invisible in the vale of battle. "Novice! What are you doing here, you are to take refuge from within the walls?”

“I am sorry Master Hetil, but I was commanded by the High Lord to take Master Gelals position while he tries to recover his strength. Most Masters are almost depleted....”

“MISSILES!” Someone screeched.

Instantly each magician within the Guild sent forth their strength to reinforce the shield above their heads. With a great thunder the rocks were cast aside, broken like the guild. “Where is the High Lord, pray, where is he?” The Novice pointed towards the Northern gate where the brunt of the attack was falling. The High Lord was indeed mighty in strength and power, but even he would tire. The Guild had to do something, this ravaging army, these monsters from the North would stop at nothing until they were all exterminated.

Leaving the Novice to his work Hetil continued to follow the High Lords calls. Smiting those who opposed him Hetil was gradually finding his own strength beginning to dwindle. The great fire of magic that burned within himself was slowly dimming into a gentle candle flame. At last success, the High Lord was a mere hundred meters away, and the walls were clear of any living enemy. “High Lord! You summoned me? ”Hetil shouted above the coarse chants of their enemies.

“Master Hetil, I am failing.... We must use what strength we have left to flee. The Guild must survive!”

“Master Hetil! Lend me your strength. Guild of Kyrallia lend me your strength, ignore these ravage dogs, for we shall survive! I beg three Guild of Kyrallia, lend me your strength!”

The Guild of Kyrallia heard their highlords calls and began to throw all they had towards their master and protector. The sick and drained who lay below in the caverns and strong rooms gave themselves for the Guild. Purposely depleting their energy, the weak and wounded gave their last heart beet and breath so that the Guild could survive.

On the Northern Gate Hetil fell forward as the iron portcullis was cast asunder. “Master Hetil, you are strongest only second to me... Lend me your strength! Hurry, I beg you.” Hetil searched within himself, he had no choice, either this would save the Guild or the High Lord will have cast them all to faliure. Moving within himself towards his fire, Hetil unlocked the source of his power. There was much remaining. Scooping the fire away with a hand bathed in light Hetil gave almost all he had to the High Lord, who was now booming an incantation in a foreign tongue. Looking up towards the blue sky which slowly seemed to turn a dull red Hetil fell into a deep sleep of recuperation. When he woke, he would no longer be in Imrildian.

Within the Galrell ocean an island would emerge, small and insignificant to the great continents of the world, however this island held the guild of Kyrallia and within it lay the magicians and their knowladge. Stretching into the heavens the great towers would be visible from horizon to horizon, the world would know of the Guild!

Sirens of Titan, Christmas Island
The Southern Shores

It was a very cold windy day of midwinter. The blizzard was lashing the buildings in the small port city known as Westminster SE. Our regular crowd of drunkards and storytellers have sought refuge in the local bar, exchanging facts about the worsening weather conditions, an even worse storm coming to visit the southern shores.
'...Due to arrive in a week or so...' An old man muttered. Still wearing his leather coat, smoking a pipe that puked out vile blue smoke and soot and mixed with the already damp atmosphere of the bar. A raging fire in a fireplace on the west side of the bar heated the place, while ice crystals formed on the windows.
Once every hour or so a truck or a car drove, no, raced passed the bar. The blizzard whistled and howled, blowing the last few merchants off the island. The monthly market was cancelled, and everybody was sitting indoors watching television or listening to the radio - in hopes of hearing good news. Cut off from the mainland, Sirens of Titan's only earthly holding was completely cut off from the outside world in winter.

You might say, in such technological times there must be something that can travel through such a fierce storm? I hate to say it, and to disappoint you, but it's not possible. Windspeeds up to hundred forty miles per hour, rain and squall. While the sea waves wash the shore clean of junk and driftwood, the wind flows through the mountains, scaring even the most seasoned loggers to their hometurf. Westminster SE was the worst place to be during this time of year. Thank heavens the snow isn't fall...
'My God! Look at the outside!' Snow came very, very early this year which can only predict the situation growing even more grim. Eyebrows were raised, frightened looks made itself master of the visitors and an uncomfortable air of a tense situation where no escape is possible hung around. Though the place was very well lit, an invisible gloom of unpleasantness rained down on everybody.

Charles Guillespeak, after his adventures with The Mystery Man [still have to finish that story, not as an RP but as a story] looked worried from the beginning. The storm was growing in power, massive turbulence in the air and the snow slicing through the air like small knives looked down at his glass of brandy. Tonight the brandy was only fifty percent of the normal price, a small token of friendliness by the bartender for all who had to travel through the blizard.

The sea was invisible, foam capped waves were stomping on the rocky shoreline and the harbour - good thing all the boats are safe and sound in the boathouses inland. None would have survived this. All of a sudden the atmosphere of jokes and relaxation began to return. The snow was still waving around the houses and buildings, yet a subtle change in the mood began to surface as the alcohol begins to sink in - and affect the mind and soul. Laughing, joking and not worrying.

It began as a soft roar from the deep, a freight train running somewhere miles from where you stand. But as minutes passed, the sound of ice crashing became more and more evident. Everybody looked up in fear, hoping to catch a glimpse of the source of the rolling thunder and roar coming from sea. The screams of women and men alike while running around thinking a tidal wave would hit them - yet nothing happened. The sound persisted and nothing happened. As quickly as it began to grow, it died down in a second. No, it was from one moment to the other absolutely quiet. The only things you heard were the storm, the roof and the people talking about it.

Something happened. But what? Charles Guillespeak would find out.

*
The Magicians Guild

The High Lord looked out over the vast waters of this new world. Above him a storm raged, snow and great winds battered the protective shield which shrouded the magicians and their Guild. Servants ran around aimlessly unsure on their duties. There was no more market for them to attend, no more city streets from where they could buy goods, and the stores would only last so long. For the first time the Guild was unsure of its purpose.

In the first dawn the Guild had been commanded by King Lavelra to guard the secrets of magic, and rid the world of those who would seek to use the greater path for destruction and ruin. For over eight thousand years the Guild followed this law, this edict handed down through the generations, and now, now they had no continent to enforce. They were a method of control now destitute and alone....but the Guild had survived, the Northerners would feel the stab of vengeance of Telkor Rana, High Lord of the Kyrallian Guild, clenching his fists the High Lord for a moment gave into anger, anger that barbarians could do so much to his civilisation.

The island was perfectly silent, no magician spoke or whispered, it seemed that everyone was in mourning for the lost, for their families and friends who were left behind. Letting all his rage flow away like a river of sorrow Telkor was startled to feel a familiar presence approach. His sandals barely made a sound as they brushed against the smooth stonework that was the outer wall. “Administrator.” Talkor said with some happiness.

“High Lord.” The Administrator replied. Standing still both men manned the battlements and peered out over their island and onwards to the ocean at large.

“How many Eloen? How many did we lose?”

The Administrator bowed his head, the sorrow and pain was real. Everyone in the guild knew everyone, to lose a magician, even a novice was to lose a friend, mentor or pupil. “We lost just over three hundred. Most died in the transfer of power, they gave all they had Telkor, everything.”

“They done what they had to do, we must thank them once all have recovered. We must thank them in revenge Eloen, we must never be fooled as we were again.”

“Yes Eloen agreed, we must thank them and we must learn from our error, but we must not go and seek revenge. Justice perhaps, but revenge is a word not to be used in the Guild, we are above it, we are higher than the Barbarians from the North.”

“Will Imrildian survive?” The High Lord asked questioningly, the battle was turning from an event of carnage to an emotional weight, a weight that would only be lifted in death.

“The Empire will go on High Lord. The armies will muster and the barbarians will suffer at the hands of our brethren. We will return when we have the strength to do so, but until then we must have faith in our brothers to carry out that at which we failed. They will enact justice upon the North. I am sure that the ice fields will run like water in the future. Yes, Talkor, justice will be done whether we are there or not.”

The High Lord smiled. In truth he knew what Eloen was true, however the Guild had lost a battle, a defeat which would strike deeply into their pride and worth.”So High Lord, where are we?”

Telkor looked into the Administrators eyes. “To be honest Eloen, I don't know......”

A few weeks later

We have located ourselves once more in the bar in Westminster SE, but this time the severe weather conditions have significantly calmed down. Some brave fishermen have set sails for the Sedgewick Coves, a sheltered set of bays and coves always full of fish. The captains of the fleets agreed not to set out for open seas, for the weather could change any moment. Thankfully this did not happen, and all of them returned safely to port with many barrels full of fresh fish. They were immediately put in the cold storage, the doors sealed tight.

Outside, a few hours later the blizzard began to grow in strength yet again. The peak of the blizzard wasn't in sight, and an awkward calm predicted not much good for the men and women at Westminster SE. The sky was dark as gray and a foreboding wind blew through the hairs of the people while they listened to the town chief Lord Tarver.
'Everyone to prepare for the worst. This will not be the end by a long shot. Bar windows and I advise everyone to stay indoors until the townbell rings!' But only moments later, a few men with eyes as sharp as eagle's saw something they couldn't believe.
An island has risen from the waves? A few weeks ago there was this rumble coming from the sea, that direction. Maybe that caused it.
'...it's not a volcanic island...' These words have moved through the cold winter air a dozen times that day.
'...dark forces are at work here...'
'...let's hope the old days are not returning...'
'Ask Mr Guillespeak, he knows about the occult...'
'Try to find out more about when you see Charles, he knows about those things...'
Rumors spread like a wildfire while the storm endures. It was impossible to explore the island or even try to get there. The sea was rough, waves leaped around as they were driven to the shore by tide and current.