NationStates Jolt Archive

Sslaa system's edge

One of the hundreds of bands of CommSatts and DefSatts keep their electronic eyes on the group of five sentient ships that had left the Sszeera Belt. A standard V formation was applied to the Paniluris (http://www.5amfunnies.com/sakkra/space/shell.JPG) ships as they made their preparations to dive into subspace and make their way to the Titan sphere. Numerous members of their 'class' had come to see them off. This class would be about twenty sentient crafts that have yet to receive their enhancements that would make them combat-ready ships.

PsiComm lines fired off between the two groups at a rapid rate. 'Good luck!' 'Don't let them feed you substandard ores!' 'Remember, you five are a team. Keep your sensors on each other!' Such was the standard farewells each 'class' gave to their departing comrades, who have been assigned their jobs and sent off to undergo their fittings. The five ships PsiCommed their farewells, and gently slipped into subspace.

Sol System's Rim

"Point B checks."
"Yo. Point C?"
"Checks."
"Yo. Reading harmonic disturbance at A. Looks like they're pretty much on time."
The group of three Corsaire (http://www.5amfunnies.com/sakkra/weaponry/rangers.JPG) class Ranger cruisers grouped together, awaiting the appearance of the five ships they were charged with escorting. The first of the Paniluris emerged from subspace, followed by the other four. "Looks like you're all here in one piece." The lead of the Ranger group PsiCommed directly to the five ships. "We'll escort you to where you'll be getting your fittings, and see you off from there." Although the size of the Paniluris ships was easily four times the size of the cruisers, the new ships still 'felt' a bit nervous.

The avatar of the lead Paniluris, which looked like an egg, popped up in the Corsaire's display. "Ummm, excuse me, but will this be painful?" The avatar would remain an egg until the craft was fitted, christened and assigned a Handler crew.

The Corsaire seemed to chuckle a bit. "Who's to say? Maybe yes, maybe no. Think you can't hack it?" Private messages from the other Ranger cruisers warned of teasing the 'newbz' too much. "Belay that chatter! You'll spook the youngsters."

"Yo, top. Just testing, just testing. Let's get it over with. It's almost lunch." Lunch for the sentient ships meant parking themselves one a significant chunk of ore-rich asteroid and 'eating' away at it.

An uneventful trip to the Titan sphere, with all assurances and checks followed, and the cruisers broke off to their own destinations. The Paniluris, in the meantime, began their descent into Titan's atmosphere. Their gravitic flywheel entry-engines kicked in, reducing their speed to an allowable level. At Rrooazaa, the Titan stronghold of the Order of Rragg, the five crafts settled down, supported by numerous landing struts coming from their undersides like tree-trunks. Greeting them were dozens of War Shamans (http://www.5amfunnies.com/sakkra/sham.jpg) and the Temple Elder, all standing silent, sightless audience to their descent and landing.

The Temple Elder wallked forward, touching the tree-like strut. "Hrrmmm...good aura." He walked back to where the War Shamans were at, and addressed them as well as the ships. "Our work will begin when all parties have arrived. This will be a monumental day for us, as these five ... "His hand beckoned to the Paniluris. "...will be instrumental in our work, which we have performed faithfully for many a millenia. Prepare yourselves, and the grounds here." At this the War Shamans begun thumping their cudgels on the ground, chanting in a low and haunting tone.

Wizened fingers, creased and folded yet not wrinkled with the looseness of age, scuttle like leaves on the wind over the still-hot weaponmetal shining brassily over the forge, mystic runes burning gold. The saffron-robed mage rises up on his knees, spreading his hands in the air as fingers still twitter above scarred palms and backs, a single line of firey words in the Pali script appearing between them. He bows back down, maneuvering the incandescent words over the Norse runes; the letters of flame melt into the metal, turning it from luminous brass to nearly blinding gold for a moment. The monk sits back up, and two saffron-robed weaponsmiths fold the metal over, carefully hammering it into place in time to their chants before a fourth man, a scribe with the look and bearing of a man from Freod, lightly chisels his own prayer in runes into the hot metal. Bow, rise, write in the air, bow, rise, hammer, chisel... only one rite in a string of them in the vaulted workshop, stone walls echoing with the clangs of hammers stronger than steel, the rumbling of furnaces, the tinks of chisels, and the hymns of individual duets too small to be considered proper choirs. Acolytes move hot metal in progress from one stage to another, to its appropriate station for this particular fold.

Every two-hundred-sixteenth fold, words are carved burning into the air and lowered gingerly, melting into the blades that take shape in the foundries of HELLSING's most sacred catacomb-monastery deep in the mountains of Xanadu where the ley lines intersect in Karmabaijan. Ground zero of the Titanian Awakening, as far as anyone can tell, and the most powerful point of the moon's gaiasphere. The vaulted warrens within the snow-capped and dagger-sharp peaks serve as monastery and fortress for the Triumvirate's elite anti-metanormal force. Should this point fall, the very soul of the moon and the traditional homeworld of the Saturnians would be under threat should the occupiers know its significance; yet this point is also a vital resource in the War Against Fractality, where the collective spiritual energy of essentially the entire Saturnian system can be focused and harnessed to serve HELLSING's holy mission, the mission inscribed on the crosses or splitting their coat of arms into four fields of azure and gules.

Deleus Malus. To defeat, destroy, and utterly expunge Evil.

* - * - *

A bow, a ruffling of black cassock, and a sign of the cross in greeting. Cardinal Castelbranco would have had kittens earlier in his life, having one of his priests serving in something so... unitarian, but the oddities of this reality demands adaptation. "Sibling-Crafter Daigu Mu-nan, our honored allies have set their new ships down in Rrooazaa stronghold, as we discussed."

The saffron-robed man sits in the lotus position, tawny orange-yellow hood pulled well over his face, scarred and mottled hands resting in meditative ease on his knees. He nods once, and sweeps a single hand of dancing fingers through the air, the letters now in angular Latin capitals instead of the curves and loops of Pali. GRATIA burns in the air, and speaks in the voice of flaming air to the priest. "You are thanked for this missive by me, Father Freudenthal. I am chosen still by the Conclave to meet them?"

"Yes, Sibling-Crafter. Your knowledge of our arts is on a level I could never comprehend, and you know the... mortifications of their order."

Another wave of fingers and palms so scarred and scabbed that the shade of his skin offers no information as to his lineage. INDEED. "That is known by me. It could not be helped that I was always a good craftsman but never a good cook, hmm? Such a dedication is appreciated by me, with all things being as they are and were." His free hand disappears under his hood, a soft plastic tapping.

"No, Sibling-Crafter. Please, we have a shuttle waiting, and my other obligations force something of a window on us."

Wave and flames. COMING. No speech; the monk merely lifts himself to his feet and shuffles alongside the priest.

* - * - *

Transit; a change of scenery. When the Sakkrans came to Titan, they got the land of a nation that used to be Lahriannon. It disappeared one day, and so the OPO already had that spot marked as something else to worry about. Then Titan Awakened, and the Titanian Sakkrans were hit hard. Fortunately, this eventually turned out to be a good thing.

Clearances pre-planned get exchanged, and the sleek little personnel shuttle lands at Rrooazaa. Its portside door emerges and first appears Father Sören Freudenthal, tall, thin, and blonde, in his black cassock; following after him is the same saffron-robed monk as before, his hood covering his face far more darkly than the light material of his robes would suggest. Still, from what little of his neck and chin that shows, his silhouette reflects slightly more glossily than it should, and he carries about him the scent of prosthetic plastic. Both bow formally to the first Orderman to address them, Sören drawing a tiny cross on his breast with his thumb as he bows, the other sweeping his hand in a circle to draw the dharmacakra in tongues of fire in front of him before it is swept away by the wind, never there in the first place. "Good cycle--I am Father Freudenthal of the Mother Church and this is Mystic-Crafter Daigu of HELLSING. How may we help?"

The Orderman to greet them stood silently, while the sea-swept breeze blew slowly all about them. Looking about, one would think they were at the marshes leading into an ocean right before one would arrive at a beach. Numerous aquatic birds sat in their nests in trees, or atop the artificial perches of the shuttleport. A pair of Guats striding through the watery lands on their long legs could be seen darting their scissor-like beaks into the water once in a while, snipping fish in two in mid-air and gulping the bisected parts down.

After the greeting, he bows his head down slightly, and marks the 3/4 circular symbol of the Order on his breast in the air. His cloak is the standard black with violet trimmings around the sleeves and cowl. A slight smell of something smouldering seems to surround his head at all times. "Good cycle to you, Father Freudenthal and Mystic-Crafter Daigu. I am Tome-Scholar Rreeb."

He steps aside a bit as his arm beckons down the path of wooden planks leading from the shuttleport into a growth of sparse-limbed trees a short distance away. As they walk, the Orderman relays his tale. The Orderman's steps seems quite light considering his bulky frame, mostly hidden under his cloak. "As i'm sure you know, we have five acolytes joining the ranks of the Order, who are of a different nature than most Ordermen are. As well as this, there seems to have been incidents of a variety of psychic and mystic nature occuring throughout the Known Systems; this moon Titan not exempt."

A group of young Neophytes approaches from where the path stops, swaying censers of sandalwood in the air before them as their grey robes flutter slightly. A pair hold two trays, one with a black bottle, the other with three fluted glasses. "The Order would like to induct these five acolytes with the crafting of empowered runes, to aid and protect them in their duties to the Order and all sentient beings in need of assist in these times of dimensional threats and supernatural evils. Such is why we have called you here."

The Neophyte pours the three glasses of liquid from the black bottle, which turns out to be a warmed, heady wine with a very strong scent of plums. One is offered to each of the three present. "Such an undertaking is alien territory to us. True, we have managed to learn the art of glyphing on our Shamans millenia ago, but this is a different matter. As such, we felt having the guiding hands of one known to be a master at it is the only logical course. The Scions of the First agree with this."

Mottled hands, scarred and pitted, wave once in the air as the Buddhist crafter-monk follows the Sakkran warrior-monk. Again words appear in flame, perhaps lost in the smoke between them and dessicated ocular nerves, but it is rumored the Order of Rragg possess sight beyond sight, which would be sufficient enough. Either way, the flames speak in the tongue of rajas, the whisper of Acts 2:4, a breathy rumble of distinct clarity. I CAN DO IT, in the script of the Sakkrans. "This is within my power to teach, Tome-Scholar. The art of runes--runecrafting--is given power by its connection with how things stand. It is called faith by some, blind perhaps by others, but to me it is seen as reality. For this I am called mad by others, along with other things. They are seen as mad by me. All things are balanced in the end."

He, like Freudenthal, accepts the glass with both hands and a bow, but merely holds it cupped in his left hand as he writes in the air with his right. Sören sips quietly, not wishing to comment in what he knows nothing about. POWER IS THE WORD. "Words are entities of will in the world of the mind, communal flow between souls. The methods of thought of most are defined by words; it has not been thought if there has been no word for it. Yet words have never been granted meaning by their mere existence. This concept in society is borne from the reciprocal nature of words; the mind is given meaning by them and they are given meaning by the mind. All words have originated from somewhere; at some point they were uttered and their meaning was given.

WORDS ARE THE POWER. "The art of runecrafting is given its power through this concept. The actor is also acted upon in his own action; subject and object of verbs are mixed by the very action that is described by the verb. The art is oversimplified by me saying that it is merely the art of putting one's faith and soul through the power of words into an object, but this description is accurate. One's meaning--the power of the rune--is defined by what words one puts down, not by what is meant to be said for the power of words is cyclic. The choice of language, diction, wording, and style have been all determined by the need of the spell. And yet faith has always been needed in the writing, true faith in the meaning of the words, for the words to have power.

ALL IS AS IS MEANT. "Glyphing is a simplification of this. Glyphs that seem to have power are observed, the glyphs are copied, and so the glyphs are again imbued with power. Evolution of the tree of concepts and characters is played out so. But words... 'alakazam' and 'abracadabra' were filled with power to once, to someone. Babbling is what they are made to be now, for in the lack of will they have lost their meaning. They are not taken seriously by anyone anymore... unless they have been given meaning in the will of the user. This has always been the secret of magical words and mystic spells; if one has never had the words that one needs to describe one's will, then they are borrowed from another language or they are simply made up."

Freudenthal stifles a chuckle; despite being more-or-less on loan from the Church to HELLSING at the moment, this is all rather silly to him. He covers how close he comes to such a diplomatic gaffe by taking another slow sip of the wine, seeming to quaff more than he actually does.

I TEACH. "The difficulty of this is not accurately described in what I have said. This is what I will be teaching, of course. May the students be seen by me?" In all of his handwaving he has not moved his left hand with the glass by a single centimeter, apparently.

It is believed that, through the Contract with the Scion of Winds that the Order maintains, Rreeb manages to follow the writings in the air that the Crafter-Monk Daigu makes. In actuality it's because having lived in utter darkness in the catacombs of each Temple, the tympanum of the Ordermen have become extremely sensitized to vibrations in the air. Even an arm moving in the wind casts a vibrating ripple effect, and these are read and translated into a colorless interpretation of movement of everything around them. Were the Grass-Walkes of the Order present, their eyes would be loaned to the Ordermen through a psychic link. But as none are about, the line interpretation is the best Rreeb can manage, which is usually sufficient.

Rreeb removes his cowl, showing the multiple scars on his face, especially around the eyeholes which resemble nothing more than empty sockets. A small issuance of smoke seems to smolder out of them constantly. He dips two clawed fingers into the warmed wine, and rubs it all around the sockets, where the scars of burns still show.

He places the glass back on the tray, never drinking from it himself, and covers his head with the cowl once again. "The process described sounds infinitely complicated as it is, but the truth is recognized. A strain of that belief exists within the Temple itself. It is recognized that words do indeed have power. But the form of that power is a subjective matter. Humans have mastered the use of their words for the most part. For us, it is a bit different. The use of translating symbiotes manages to make our tongue sound familiar to all who hear it, but our manner of speech is also dictated by smell, and the range of subsonics. So our words of power may differ, but the principle is still the same."

Although one may not notice Rreb's head sway, the feeling of his attention turning to Freudenthal can be 'felt' more than anything else. "Even in the christian and catholic religions it is so. The Word of your Savior, Jesus Christ, holds great sway over the followers. This sway can be turned into action, and these actions can be great. Is this not also a form of 'power'? In the Hebrew religions, the teachings of Moses holds fantastic influence over those followers. Millenia after his passing, his words still hold great thrall. Such is the power of words of Faith."

Rreeb signals to the Neophytes awaiting at the wings, and they turn slowly and walk further down the path. "You wish to meet your future pupils, and it is good. Although they may not appear it, they are anxious for the introduction to be made. If you will follow me...." he turns, keeping his tail beneath his cloak so as not to knock anyone over with it. Slowly he continues up the dirt path, over another gangplank surmounting the marshy ground below, and into a stretch of trees. No small talk is made during this time while Rreeb allows the calls of local wildlife and the rustling of leaves on the breeze, as well as the sounds of their own footfalls, to guide his 'vision'.

After breaching the stretch of trees, they come to a fairly open field of short grasses. In front of them sit approximately 28 War-Shamans, each sitting on the ground cross-legged, with large bone-handled hammers on their laps. The skin on each of them is covered in numerous glyphs, all in white. None seem to wear a cloak, but instead wear what looks like armor made from some manner of armor-plated creature. And all of their eyes look like they've been poked out, as each has the small jet of smoke coming from their eyes as Rreeb's do. Further in the distance, the hazy silhouettes of the Paniluris ships could be seen near what looks like a huge termite mound. A low thrumming sound seems to disturb the air around them as the trio arrive.

Rreeb holds a hand up, and the sound stops. His hands then gesture to the two with him. "This is the Crafter-Monk, Daigu, and Father Freudenthal. You will learn the Arts of which was spoken earlier in order to further our goals. Treat them with the reverence you would treat the First Scion, for they will be your masters in this." All the War-Shamans stood up in unison, lowered their heads and kneeled, the head of their hammers resting on the ground.

Rreeb turns his attention to Daigu and Freudenthal. "They are yours to do with as you wish."

The monk nods with another wave across his breast. GOODBYE. "May a good cycle be had by you, Tome-Scholar." He then turns to his students, and nods under his cowl for the Catholic to find somewhere comfortable to sit.

Freudenthal nods and finds a suitable rock, pondering another sip of the plum brandy before deciding it's gone a bit too much to his head already and therefore setting it aside. Yes, it's true that the words of faith have power through their meaning, but he knows the Mystic-Crafter a little better and therefore knows where the wolf-in-Buddhist's-clothing is going with this. Words have power but are given power by those they impress power on; it's a circular argument that logically leads to an upward spiral of power given the right conditions. Then again, the Mystic-Crafter's trade is based on those right conditions.

Daigu sets aside his glass, its contents untouched, then throws his cowl back to better see the blind Sakkrans bowing before him. The mottled, scarred, pitted appearance of his hand extends to his head, completely bald and covered with the blobby splatters of smooth scars. Not only is he completely bald but utterly hairless; eyebrows gone, no eyelashes at the ends of his smoothed-end eyelids. His skin doesn't have a complexion so much as it has a terrain; cragged and jagged and piebald with no indicator of what race he may have had. His earlobes, nubs of melted candlewax around holes.

Oh, and his face. It ends at the bridge of his nose, lumpy melted skin having formed new, chapped lips that extend all the way back to just afore what remains of his ears. Then all the way down his throat, to under the saffron-colored garments he wears. Where his jaw should be, there is nothing but air. Where his soft palate should be, void. His throat, and what now acts as the lower wall of his sinuses, consists only of a flexible plastic prosthetic that integrates seamlessly under his body's attempt to reform a lip, a smooth reflective grey bent spoon of a thing with a small valve where his uvula would of been, had he had a mouth to keep it in.

Freudenthal takes another sip of his brandy.

THEY TAUGHT YOU WRONGLY. The voice speaks as fire, with heat, with violence, but with a paradoxically calm smoothness. It is the roar, the crackle, and the ruffle of the bonfire all at the same time. A voice of action, not anger; rajas. "War-Shamans, you probably have all been wrongly taught by your teachers, your cultures. The belief in beings, souls, and other such foolishness as is taught has probably taken root in your brains, never to be properly weeded. You have the belief in 'you,' and 'me,' and 'I am.' All of my students previous have been taught these things, and it has always been unfortunate. No matter. You will be made to unlearn these things, in so far as has always been required for my art."

His eyes sparkle with something between mischief and malevolence, between mere elfishness and saturnalian gaiety. "For a time, you will be made to share my view of things that the wrongly taught have called madness and yet have never been able to refute."

START WITH AN EXERCISE. "The process is started with an exercise for the class. Has the thought 'I AM'"--almost the ineffable tone of the burning bush--"been thought or claimed by the individual arteries, veins, and capillaries of your bodies as they have dutifully moved your blood throughout you?"

The assembled War-Shamans didn't move their heads at all, as far as anyone could tell just by looking at them. But what was 'felt' was a blurring sensation of puzzlement. And a deep curiosity. One of the shamans in the middle row pipes up. He bows his head to the ground as he speaks.

"Master, it is not known if our capillaries, veins and arteries ever had a sense of self. Of my own knowing, I can say that they do not have a sense of individuality, and so could not be self-aware. I can only say' no' in short."

The corners of the mouthless monk's eyes smile as he waves his dancing fingers again. RIGHT. "The correct answer is given; congratulations, War-Shaman. It has always been comical to think that the individual cell has soul or self. Likewise there has never truly been the self in you or I, but there has only ever been the oversoul of the universe. This will be explained as I discovered it many years ago, when I was converted to my current order."

THERE IS ONLY UNITY. "Two soul-concepts are had in Buddhism, ATMAN, the self-soul, and BRAHMAN, the universe-soul. The individual 'I AM' comes from the ATMAN, which was derived as the individual portion of the BRAHMAN. BRAHMAN has flowed over the world like water, where the individual ATMAN has been the rivers and lakes of the world. But there has only ever been one hydrosphere; water in it has been circulated by natural processes throughout the entire thing. Likewise, there has never truly been an individual soul except the soul of the universe in general, BRAHMAN. You and I, as ATMAN, have no existence outside of a subset of BRAHMAN. We have existed only as BRAHMAN talking to itself, BRAHMAN, in an internal play whose sum is unity. As the waking world was found to be an illusion by the Buddha, the sense of self has been found to be an illusion by me."

A slight pause, and a bow. PARDON ME. "Pride is not what I should have displayed, but it does remain. We have been tricked into our individuality by the necessity of BRAHMAN to interact with itself; when really we have always been like the capillaries to blood--secondary to the source itself. We are the transferrence of meaning from BRAHMAN to BRAHMAN, the interactions of BRAHMAN with itself are what we are. Good and evil, right and wrong, these have been the names of our parts given by poor learning that has never seen the unity that puts the lie to such dichotomies. Even though the truth is now seen by us, however, our parts must still be played; us the good versus them the evil. To the point of the matter I have been moving, and am now."

YOU MOVE DEFINITIONS. "As runecrafters, definitions are moved by you. Acting as merely a part of the universe's oversoul, other portions of that soul are given meaning by your soul through your actions and your words. As actors that has always been your purpose, but one is always an actee as actor; the dichotomies have balanced to the unity that is BRAHMAN. Through your actions, things will be made to have meaning beyond their false physicality; that which is runed will be protected by your actions of faith that are defined by the application of will. The meaning thus transferred, however, is determined by your words. Words acting upon the world is how the BRAHMAN is modified by itself.

"Things--be they items or people--are modified with protections against that we have considered metaphysical by our own metaphysical means. Force is provided by the will, meaning is provided by the words. Words are said and given definition by the will and the mind behind the will. The mind, as an object and mere part of BRAHMAN, is defined by the word. The word is trumped by BRAHMAN, and even by part of the BRAHMAN, and so the word may be invented by the mind. That the mind may be created by the word is suggested by the principle of unity in all things, but this is homunculus and forbidden. Certainly it has always been easier for the mind to create the word than vice versa.

"The words, and how the words are to be made, is what will be learned by you through my teaching. I am made to understand my mode of speech has been difficult to understand... yet it does reflect how I think and so once it is understood by you, the art will be better understood. It has always been this way, and apologies are made by me, but the blame if any were needed is better put on your teachers and how the madness of the world has always manifested itself. That you will be acting as channels for the transferrence of meaning should be sufficiently understandable for now."

ANOTHER EXERCISE. "It has become clear that I should make sure meaning has been transferred. The next exercise: how would the essential concepts of my previous speech be summarized, in your own words?"

The assembled War-Shamans seem to turn their heads to each other, tympanum wavering as sub-sonic speech fills the air, scents of a variety of sorts assaulting the senses of any unaccustomed to it. This continues for a good portion of a half-hour until all heads turn to one among them. This one stands and bows down on one knee.

"Master, our understanding, flawed as it may be, is this. The universe is an entity composed of may parts. We, and all beings, are those parts. As virulent cells exist, so do the anti-bodies. These could be considered the 'evil' and the 'good'. All these parts serve differing functions, and communicate with each other to perform those functions but are still one minute part of the whole. As antibodies, we keep in check the virulent presence. As such, without the virulent presence, there would be no need for antibodies. None would exist without the whole."

The kneeling shaman seems to have some trouble grasping the next concepts, as could be told by the extremely sharp scent of nutmeg that appears to seep out of him. "None here can say about the crafting of runes. When we prepare for battle, we give our entirety to the Pantheon. Through this, the Pantheon prepares our tools, fortifies our minds, strengthens our resolve to do as they wish for the betterment of all under their guidance. We do not know if this is anyway related to your description of rune-craftiing; forgive our ignorance which is massive."

The battered, scarred monks eyes smile again. CLOSE. "Many apologies are given. You are correct in the first, more or less; it is sufficient to explain yourselves while maintaining your misconception of individuality."

BUT NO TREAT. "The latter, and greater, ideas that were attempted to be described by me are that individuality has always been an illusion. This illusion is created by those interactions you just pointed out. This is found to be important because viewing things with the lack of individuality has made it obvious that the universe talking to itself is all there has ever been. As interactions more than self the definition the universe gives to its own components is completed through your 'selves' and your actions. Mind, a tiny bit of that universal Will, is how you are defined by the universe. Words and actions are created by the Mind through Will and are the means through which other things are changed. The active transfer of meaning is accomplished by Will, via action. The definition of meaning in the Will is accomplished by the Will, via Words."

TWO STEPS. "In runecrafting, two responsibilities will be simultaneously met by you. First, an act of faith--a ritual--will be incorporated into the crafting by you. Physical proof of your creed and belief and will shall be imbued into the process by this. Second, an act of statement--word-chants, prayer-formulas, the rune-meaning--will be implanted through the ritual by you. Not only will runes, mere glyphs and sigils, be crafted, but they will be given meaning by the method of their crafting and their true power is given by their meaning as will solidified in will.

"The rest was open speculation by myself concerning the natures of will, mind, and word. Words can be invented and given meaning by the mind and the mind's faith. Many words have been invented by me, first only known to me until they were taught to others by me. These words have no meaning to the faithless, but the runes the words were crafted into have still retained their power due to the force of my acts and my will in the crafting. Given that there has never been a true duality in the universe taken as a whole, only unity, a vice-versa must be had in all things. It has then become possible that, because words are created by the mind, then minds can be 'created' by words. The universal overmind would be further segmented by the power of words to create additional portions of itself, what would be called by you 'individuals' or 'minds' or 'souls.' It has been argued that this has been done by the invention of mechanoid intelligence. It may also be possible with my art, or a variant thereupon like the hermetic magic used by mages, but our understanding of such things must be vague and so the creation of magical homunuculi is strictly forbidden by the Conclave and all other reasonable organizations that follow the Good."

The centermost shaman in the front rows pipes up. "Truly it will be hard to shed the concept of the individual. One wishes to define itself and hope that one's fate is engineered by one's own will. But for the sake of the Order and the Good, it will be done." At the mention of 'No Treat', the shamans as a group mimic the ritual of flagellation.

One of the shaman raises his head up, 'looking' at Daigu as much as one without eyes can look. "So it is to be taken that creating a 'soul' within a mechanical being is forbidden? Or using rune-craft to give mechanical things life? Perhaps it will be discussed later, but how does one know where the line of tolerance for this is drawn?"

The monk shakes his head. NOT QUITE. "No. A mind is given definition by its being constituted of a subset of brahman we call atman; in this case soul and mind are and always have been equivalent. The fell use of our art is defined by the creation of such souls and minds, independent of any initial substance or structure, through the making of runes. In this way it does resemble the art of making golems, but the creation of an actual soul rather than an automaton is forbidden to us, and rightfully so, for no one has ever had the skills necessary to create a complete and effective soul.

ALL MINDS HAVE SOULS. "If a mind is had by an object, then a soul is by definition had by it as well. The mind and soul and self are all the same thing, the same illusion that is caused by the overmind, oversoul of the universe interacting with itself. The creation of minds and souls through magic words or runes is prohibited by the Conclave and all others who serve the Good."

The group remains seated, as more rumblings and sub-sonic communications pass amongst themselves. "So it is that we can not give life to that which had no life before we came upon it? In essence, a hammer is not to be given sentience through rune-craft, correct? If an item is given rune-crafted sentience, that is homonculus? But if the hammer already possessed sentience when we are called on to perform runes on it, it is not?"

Corners of burn-scarred eyes smile again, there's an extra bit of energy in how he flutters his fingers this once. CLOSE ENOUGH. "That is, more or less, what was meant by me in my previous utterings. That our purpose is to augment rather than to create should be a sufficient summary of what has been said. Are any questions had by you before the lessons are continued?"

The group stands and bows on one knee as a group, hammer-butts pressed into the ground. "We have no questions for our Master. We will be attentive, and strive to do the best possible."

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Rreeb, in the meantime, had walked for a while after leaving the War-Shamans to the tender mercies of Rune-Crafter Daigu. Absent-mindedly he went lost in thought until his head almost impacted with the trunk-like strut of one of the Paniluris. "Ah. I'm here." Rreeb allowed his senses to expand, taking in the outlined shapes of numerous Sakkrans of a small and lithe stature about the ships. Grass-Walkers most likely. Wonder what they're scurrying about for?

The grass-walkers were scattered about the hull of each Paniluris in groups of three, touching and investigating each portion of the crafts. The same could be said was happening within the ships. "Good cycle to you, Tome-Scholar." The mental speech of the grass-walkers could be 'heard' in his head. A trio of outlined shapes approached from a few meters before him.

"Good cycle to you as well. I feel these grounds have been purified again. To what end?" Rreeb sniffed the air deeply as he said this, sensing the ozone-like scent of the air around him.

"The Elder requested we purge this area of impurities for the Paniluris here. As well as this, our brethren have been readying this place for a Visitation."

Rreeb 'looked' at the speaker of the trio. "A Visitation....you mean.... one of the Scions?" A lilting tone entered his head at that point. "Of course. Would it mean anything else?"

And so Daigu goes into a long-winded, passive-voice lecture on how one actually performs runecraft. It gets very technical in places, and honestly Father Freudenthal (and the narrator) got lost once or twice through the ramble. Nevertheless the monk never minds pausing for questions or clarifying his more unintelligible statements.

Still, it boils down to "it is what you make it." Certainly the War-Shamans already have rituals in which they have true faith; these are better than learning other rituals which may have some sort of doubt attached to them. All they have to do is adapt these rituals to the crafting of whatever foci they wish to build, or whatever runes they want to make and in doing so the power of their faith and belief energizes the rune. The actual meaning of the rune is dependent on, well, its meaning; a rune sigil that signifies "protection from harm" in the minds of the creator with, again, true faith (but in this case the true faith of language and symbology; anyone driving a vehicle understands the symbology of road signs despite very few words, if any, being used) will thus protect the object from harm with the power given it by the faith of the ritual used.

This is where specificity comes in handy; a generic "protect from harm" rune that has, oh, one man-hour of faith put into it will generically use that one-man hour of faith to protect the object from all possible harm, including proton decay, entropy, scratched paint, blue book devaluation, and the like, spreading out a relatively small amount of effort over an extremely broad range of things. A one man-hour "protect from harm due to magic" rune has the same overall power, but concentrates it against magical attacks or decay, though it does nothing against physical attacks. A one man-hour "protect from magic" rune will protect the object from all magic, good or bad, and so is not highly recommended.

Therefore, generic runes are generally only advised when one has a lot of people putting a lot of faith into an object; HELLSING broadswords are runed with the relatively generic "Destroy anything that serves or holds true to evil" to the tune of several thousand man-hours. Then comes the problem, well, 'what is evil?' Daigu uses Pali because it describes the vaguely Zen Buddhist concept of "that which opposes the freedom of will and supports the cause of entropy via direct or indirect harm to others" in very few words. Those who support him chant the concept in different languages, where word-space is not so much a factor, or carve it in different languages where the concept can be fit easily into the surface area necessary and whatnot. Different languages have different meanings for words--traduttore, tradittore--and so the choice of the language involved is often highly important to the message or meaning being used.

As for how it's applied? Carve it, paint it, magically imbue it, code it in braille or binary, arrange it on the molecular level to read out messages... it really doesn't matter; the only dependency there is what physical limitation each option has. Carvings can be edited on purpose or by accident (such as the traditional golem, where the 'rune' emet אמת for "truth" on its forehead can be changed to the 'rune' meit מת for "dead" to kill it), paintings can be edited or etched off; magical imbuing often requires some sort of mystical component, some expertise, and often an upkeep cost in terms of chickens slaughtered or souls stolen or whatever; and molecular-level runecraft is decidedly expensive and, given that rune power is proportional to faith times apparent time, and molecular construction a la nanolathing tends to have to be quick to work, leads to rather weak runes.

Ah well. Such is the way of things on the borderline of sanity and science.

The shamans paid attention with more than the customary level of focus. It was almost as if they were preparing for battle, and in their minds indeed they were. A battle against ignorance, change and the unknown. Already ideas were forming on how to take the known rituals and skills and bring them to bear in a new capacity. Like an artist with a new source of inspiration, their minds became giddy with ideas. But to make those ideas into something tangible...

Questions and ideas were brought up, discussed and either shot down or shelved for later investigation. How, why and what to do for making serviceable foci were discussed. It was guaged that using symbiotes and imbuing runecraft into it would be a poor choice as the unstable span of the symbiote could render a long-term rune non-viable of the symbiote ceases functioning. It had been brought up that perhaps, for the purpose at hand, segments of organic hull plating may be used to experiment with. A small sample of this was brought to Daigu for inspection and approval/disapproval.

COULD WORK. "Yes, a rune can certainly be imprinted on this material. It may even be made to hold better, with its properties being given what they are... perhaps a runic-based familiar process? Hmmmm."

As far as Father Freudenthal can tell from the rest, the idea is that yes you can rune an organism but it has to be done in a particular way and it creates a bond between organism and concept roughly equivalent to the bond between a mage and her familiar, should she have one. The difficulty and strength of the familiarization process, to coin a term, is roughly proportional to the sentience of the familiar. Ants would be very easy to familiarize, but not be particularly strong (except in bulk). Meanwhile, medium-order mammals such as dogs and cats or lizards such as iguanas are essentially the industry standard.

Of course, given the composite nature of the hull plating, it would probably just be easier to rune like any other normal material. The runes don't necessarily have to be physical if there is some sort of higher-order means of imbuing the material with meaning, but physical runes are indeed the easiest way.

The Shamans brought out their scribing tablets, scratching at the slabs of slate furiously with their claws. What they were doing was not the standard Sakkran writing, which was a series of cuniform drawings on thin sheets of old shed skin. Two layers of the shed would then be pressed together to form the actual written language. No, this was more along the lines of the calligraphic version of it, which meant the depth of the etching made was just as important as the linework of it. It had been decided that this would be the method the rune-crafting would be done in, and the Shamans would have to practice their scribing for this, for even a more of difference in the depth of the etching would mean something totally different than what was intended.

The sounds of claws scrabbling on slate could be painful to most ears. Like nails on a chalkboard. The Shamans to an individual dull their hearing, rendering the outside world to them all but non-existant as they pour all their focus onto the task at hand. A half hour passes of this, and one Shaman takes up a section of the organic plate. He makes the same etching he had been practicing on the slate on the piece of organic armor. It was an iconic representation of a head with what looked like a skin stretched over the head, like an umbrella. He holds it up with one hand, feeling the depth of the etch and fingering around the rim of the icon with his other hand.

By this time, the others had done the same, and all laid out their pieces of plate on the ground. "It is in this method we will put into practice that which you have instructed. If you would care to inspect?"

Being a mere priest, Father Freudenthal politely excuses himself. The saffron-robed Daigu, on the other hand, sits serenely with nary a sign of noticing the screeching sounds, much less a wince. Oh, he certainly hears it, and it isn't a pleasant sound. It simply is, though, and, given that which he'd done in his earlier ignorance, he feels he deserves whatever discomfort he may accidentally find himself in. Once samples are brought to him, what's left of the lines around his burned, sloppily-healed eyes smile. OF COURSE. "A desire for inspection may be found in me. If the tablets could be given to me by you..."

One is quickly delivered, and he kneels over it. THANK YOU, in firey words, but no associated voice, and his clear eyes scan keenly over the sheets from under their plastic-looking smooth lids. He runs his battered scarred hands over the old skin, smooth fingertips working out the depth, the feel of the rises that border each furrow, the intent inherent in each carving. He raises one hand even as he continues to examine, casting runes of will-o'-the-wisp in the air. YES. "Suitability is most certainly found in this method, yes. Concentration must always be remembered by you as a key factor in the granting of meaning and the usage of semantics in runecraft. The force of will inherent in applying meaning is defined by your concentration... but a good start, a good foundation are made by these efforts."

The Shamans as a group stand, taking up the tablets with them. "It is a good thing, then. But these tablets, while good for practice, are not like the 'skin' of one of the living crafts. If we try to graft these tablets to the skin, there will be changes to it and the effort put in will be wasted. We would have to craft these directly on the crafts themselves."

At that time, the Tome-Scholar comes upon the clearance, with a small gourd in his clawed hand. His fingers tap on the lip of it in a staccato rhythm, sending a light thunking sound through the air. "It is time for repast. Crafter-Monk Daigu, father Freudenthal, will you be joining us? Meats, vegetables and juices have been prepared." A motioning arm indicates to the area the termite mound shaped structure is at.

Daigu rises, idly dusting off the knees of his robe before casting some more words of fire in front of him. WISE. "Truth is found in that statement; meanings are changed by extreme changes in the substrate. Clay is deformed by idle presses, so the line and form of words in that clay are changed by the same method."

Once the horrible piercing screeching stops, the Catholic priest wanders his way back from the wooded paths to the clearing. He really does like the Sakkrans, but the Order creeps him out slightly and, well, he's human. He hates the sound of nails across a chalkboard. Daigu also creeps him out, in more ways than one. Still, he is the Church's envoy to all this supraunitarian weirdness. "I'd be honored to accept your hospitality, Tome-Scholar," he says with a smile, his old Diplomatic Officer-ness coming back out.

ME TOO. "You will be joined by me, with great gladness and humility on my part." The burnt monk flips his yellow-orange cowl back over his head, shrouding his disfigurement once more.

The Shamans stand as a group, and sidle off in two rows for Daigu and Freudenthal to take the lead with the Tome-Scholar. Rreeb bows his head as he turns slowly, the grasses rustling as his robe sways in the light breeze. "It shall be a simple repast. The Chanters are still readying the grounds, it seems, so we most likely will not be privy to their spinning of tales. Quite a busy lot these days."

The grassland is quite flat, save for a few rolling hills here and there. As they come closer to where the Paniluris are, and the termite-mound structure, it can be seen that the ships seems to have formed a pentagon around a large black obelisk in the middle of it all. Several yards away from the obelisk, between itself and the mound, is a large slab of shale with some gourd-like containers and several covered baskets. Around the stone are several more of the same objects arranged in a circular fashion on the ground. Squat toad-like beings could be seen arranging the gourds and baskets, and look up with huge, slitted eyes at the approaching group. They scurry off into the mound at that.

Daigu, for being unusually (in more ways than one) loquacious for a monk on something he specializes in, is unnervingly silent at most other times. The only indication that he's even listening to Rreeb is a mild nod of his hidden head, hands folded into his robe so no skin is exposed. From the chapping of his scars, he doesn't invest much in lotions. Meanwhile, Father Freudenthal in his black cassock does everything possible to ignore the mortifications of his unusual associate, and is glad for the opportunity of small talk. "There's certainly nothing wrong with simplicity, honored Tome-Scholar, though it's unfortunate we've missed the Chanters. What's taking their time so, if I may ask?"

Certainly a bit more formal and stilted than what's called for, but fluency keeps his mind off of wondering, in a perfectly human way, what exactly happened to the benign psychotic next to him. The weird amphibians don't hurt when it comes to distraction, either. He's never heard of anything like those, much less seen them, before. "If you don't mind my asking, what were those?"

Rreeb senses more than sees the direction Father Freudenthal indicates. The Chanters, at this point, have encircled the Paniluris ships. Given their names, no sound actually comes out of them except for the odd trill at seemingly random intervals. A smaller group had encircled the obelisk, committing themselves to the same actions as their counterparts around the crafts. "For your first query, Father, the Chanters are readying the area for a Visitation from the Scion of the Earth Deity. It's rare he makes an appearance, so extra care must be given to it." He nods his head as if answering a question that was never asked.

The Tome-Scholar looks at the mound where the Burrowers scampered off to. "As for them, they are also a product of the Awakening here. Known commonly to us as the Burrowers. They tend all the technological needs of the Temple here..." His hand points at the mound before them. "....and assist in some menial tasks if they find free time. They're incredibly shy, easily agitated, and masterfully skilled in their craft. There are a score of them inside each of the Paniluris now, tending to the cyb-organic components of them and making adjustments. They do not like being above-ground if they don't need to be there."

"Thank you," Soren says with a polite nod, pondering the oddity (to him) of Sakkran religion. It certainly doesn't hurt when one's gods actually appear, but, to him, that simply tends to indicate they aren't very high up on the god scale. Powerful, yes; out of his ken, undoubtedly; but competition for his particular big-G God... no, not in his mind. Still, his religion holds faith higher than scientific truth--although reason still plays a large role, as he learned in seminary quite a while back--and so of course he'd say so. If he'd think otherwise, he'd convert to Sakkran...ism. Whatever their curious pagan religion is called.

He does recall, correctly or not, something about the Sakkrans having trouble with some of his missionary forebears, so self-preservation combines with being a diplomat and simply a good man and he refrains from commenting on the Scion outside of his quiet thanks for having his question answered. As the Burrowers go, well, those who are insular by nature generally inhabit other circles than priests and diplomats... and there's no reason that the weirdness that enveloped his Old Titan Home should limit itself to any given territory. Being Scolopendran, though, he's impelled to ask the next question. "I guess they enjoy their work, then, so long as it doesn't keep them outside? Agoraphobic, I guess?"

The Tome-Scholar seems to pick his head up from a sizeable segment of some manner of meat, chomps twice and swallows. This is shortly followe dby a handful of small rounded stones. "Agoraphobic? Perhaps. Their caverns below-ground open up into wide and expansive chambers. It had been mentioned to me by them once that too much time above ground hurts their skin. They seem to enjoy being in damp environs, which their caverns have plenty of. Though how they work with metals and such in a damp place without rust or tarnish forming on their goods confounds me."

Some of the Shamans who had finished their repast a bit off from the central group had taken to performing their hand-combat exercises. A sound of 'shaa' accompanied every movement, which seemed to be conducted in slow-motion. A casual eye would see the movements and primary use of elbows and knees as a variation of Muay Thai, adjusted for the placement of Sakkran joints and the natural weapons they bear such as hand and foot claws.

"I wouldn't know; none of my vocations are exactly what one would call blue collar. Some would say that's unfortunate, and they're probably right." Soren smiles a little at his own expense. "It does seem odd, though... still, the Awakening, you said? Not to malign their skills, but it would be my guess they cheat slightly. Probably to make up for not being able to appreciate sunlight."

Not as if he has any possible basis for the claim, but it makes sense in his mind. Magically awakened people can do things like that, or so he's heard. He's heard it enough times from HELLSING, and seen Daigu work, so he figures there's some sort of analogue, although it's probably a bit more natural for the Burrowers. He eats with the sort of polite daintiness one would expect from a career diplomatic officer; while certainly not picky, he does seem to chew a regulation number of times and cuts the large hunks he's inevitably served or has to retrieve from common bowls down into much smaller, perhaps 85-percent-of-bite-sized pieces.

Daigu... doesn't seem to eat. He simply secrets bits of food into his robe, and then there's a slight whirring noise, and then he palms a little more. Freudenthal thinks it in somewhat poor taste if harmless, trying to sneak things that are offered freely and in plain sight, but finds himself lost as to what the strange sound could be. His brain attempts to put two and two together, but he refuses it the opportunity to complete the operation.

Rreeb ceases eating after a time, dipping his claws into a small bowl of water that had been brought up for that purpose, downs the remainder of a small mug of wine, and clasps his hands together below his chin. "The meal was enjoyed." It seems to be some form of thanks for the food, but to who is left unaddressed.

He then stands as Neophytes come and clean up his portion of the mess left behind. "It could be some manner of 'cheating' as you put it. Whether that is the case or not is not my field of expertise." He 'looks' over to where the Paniluris sit, noting the presence of several small mounds around it. Burrowers are seen coming and going from the holes, boarding the crafts or working on something at the underbelly.

The image of a two-foot diameter egg appears before the Tome-Scholar. "I've been told i'm ready. Is everything going according to schedule?"

"I think the Shamans are ready. Crafter-Monk Daigu, what is your assessment? Would you say the Shaman are ready for rune-crafting with your oversight? You would essentially be playing the part of fore-man for this phase."

The hooded figure nods indistinctly, the gesture easily mistaken under the cloak for perhaps nodding off or a shifting of balance. One piebald hand flicking out to spread flaming letters in the air secures it as a nod, though. OF COURSE. "That can be done by me, yes. At least a basic understanding is held by the War-Shamans, and an understanding sufficient to perform at least basic tasks. Additional assistance will be offered by me should it be needed by them." After this bit of passive-voiced assertiveness, he washes his hands in the proffered bowl.

Father Freudenthal wonders, not for the first time, why exactly he's here. Daigu seems more than able to speak for himself, even if he is somewhat insane and horribly, horribly burnt. At least he's useful; Soren, on the other hand, is just a simple chaplain who's had the honor of visiting the Vatican. Ah well. Join the service, see the 'verse, that's what they said, and he's certainly done a bit of that. This is all just something else to tell his seminary friends, should it ever be declassified.

Rreeb nods his head at that. He turns and sweeps his arm outwards. "You may begin." The Shamans pronounce as one 'Aye.' They then take to the Paniluris, leaping up on outstretched yet still furled sail-struts. Clambering up them to each side of the dual-hulled prows loaded to the hilt with cybernetically attached weapon mounts. From there they seem to spread out like ants devouring a carcass. The air seems to be filled with sub-sonic waves as the Shamans steep themselves into a trance-like state while they do what they've been learning.

Here and there a Shaman breaks his trance to mend an error in the depth of his etching; a Grass-Walker coming up to his side to communicate directly with the mind of the Paniluris, encouraging growth on the section of plate so the erring Shaman might start over. By this time, the other group of Grass-Walkers steeped in ritual have finished their preparations. Now they seem to just sit and wait, staring at the center of the area they'd been working at, munching slowly on unidentified snacks brought out.