6/26/2018

Introduction: Congress is in Session

Four of them sat around the table, an uninspiring one given the circumstance of the room. An eight foot long rectangle, age has rendered the specific specie of wood indiscernible. Seven boards run along the top while it is held up by four square legs. The plainness, the mediocrity among such distinguish, and the utter lack of workmanship is nearly repulsive. They sit there in reminiscence, talking about this time and that time in hopes that the coming change just might not come, though, they all know it is inescapable.

The meaningless chatter slowly turns to more focused conversation. Conversation surrounding a throne, stolen long ago.

Dark pink clouds like that of a sunset cover the glassy floor. Glimmering multicolored flashes of light streak throughout the clouds like lightning, and nebular pillars hold the starlit ceiling above the four in this room of gods. The enormity of the coming war slowly begins to turn their nonchalant demeanors into nervous trembling and fidgeting.

Each of them occasionally glance at the door that is the entrance into the room. The door is large, curved at the top, where it eventually comes to a point. Around twelve feet tall at its point, and eight inches thick. The door is solid gold. A raised depiction of a tree is emblazoned on each side. On the outer side of the door the tree is dead and on the other, the tree is alive and blooming, sprouting fruit of its kind.

Finally, the heavy door begins to creak open, swinging on large wrought iron hinges, like that of a spade. Furyon intently marches in, heavy footed and purpose driven. The four, who have been sitting in waiting, stare in anticipation, with their stomachs in their throats.

Bastion. The time has come. He states.

So it has. Aran turns and whispers to himself. Let us hope they are ready.

Control Lost

I’ll show you what they do when they’re afraid. Oyebh growls as he places his hand on the shoulder of the newly darkened skia. Oyebh’s fingers, long and slender, slowly conquer the bend of the skia’s neck one finger at a time. The skia can feel the cold of his fingers like sparks shooting through the raised hairs on the back of his neck. Oyebh guides him to where he can see the village of Noohrak at the bottom of the cliff. As they look over the edge and past the trees, to the unsuspecting people of Noohrak, Oyebh motions his head to the skia waiting just in the forest’s edge. Silence overcomes the dusk in such a way that even the crickets, with all of their incessancy, lack the courage to sound their songs. Pine needles and leaves cover the ground and hold the weight of each step of the dark army hidden in the secrecy of the dimly lit, foreboding forest. The sun begins to set. The shadows cast by the Chiron Mountains are what Oyebh has been waiting for. A thousand pairs of faint orange, moon-like eyes watch patiently from the tree line, waiting for the night, for their ingress to the town.

Meanwhile, within the walls of Noohrak, everyone is preparing for dark. Nestled between the Chiron mountain range and the Seaborn’s port, Noohrak is a very cozy home with friendly people who are more like family than neighbors. Every person has a job to prepare for the darkness, for the shadows of the mountains, and for the lightless corners where the sun’s rays cannot reach. Light is the only thing that can keep the skia at bay, and even then the smallest flicker of a breeze-stricken torch can be enough for one to slip through, and if that happens, the floodgates will open. The skia are engrained with a masterful ability to convince light to fade, once behind it. Everyone within the realm of Hyperion has been forced into a proclivity for sleeping with a candle lit.

Everyone must play a role. There are those who light the torches on the wall, those who make the pitch for the torches, and someone, years ago, even built a lighthouse to be able to direct light to more pressing matters. As the years have rolled by, the people of Noohrak have done an outstanding job of finely tuning the processes and rules of keeping the darkness in check, but even with all of their knowledge and resources, all of their so called progress, mistakes are a distinct possibility. There are always cracks in the armor forged by man.

On this night, as the wooden walls of the town slowly became harder to see and the torch bearer makes his rounds, he stops at the sudden and ominous quieting of the crickets, getting the sense that something was not normal. Not that he could put his finger on any exact thing, but some thing was slightly off. He turns ever so slightly towards the high trees towering above the walls, which were now but silhouettes against the purple sky. The sight of the motionless trees exaggerates the silence brought by what the man does not yet realize is there. The torch bearer fights within himself to turn back to his duties: for if he fails, the town will fall. But, the baleful nature of the dark that is outside of the walls is very captivating, much in the same way as the aurora borealis disguises the fury of the sun. Finding the strength to defeat his curiosity, the torch bearer turns his gaze back to his path. He breathes easily for a brief moment, aligned to his task once more. But, only for a moment. Unfortunately, he is met with the object of their fear, for he was too late to get to the next torch.

Looking just past the border between light and dark, he sees the sinister beings about to be unleashed. His folly has been capitalized upon, and before he can gather his words to yell warnings to those in his care, the creatures are past him. He watches as the dark beings with pale orange eyes flow through his town as a flooded river, carrying people like downed trees and brush. The screams are barely audible to him, muffled by his astonishment. In mere seconds, the town is covered in a lack of light and skia surround the torch bearer, who is holding the only still-lit torch. As the skia inch closer, encircling him and his light, the torch begins to dim, being snuffed out by the powerful dark around it. The skia, and All of the Chaos to which they belong, close in, and the light dies.

Noohrak has become a desolate land of ghosts in a matter of minutes, as if there was never anyone there to begin with. As quickly as the skia interrupted life in Noohrak, they left. The skia were gone and the crickets began to chirp once more.

Back on top of the cliff, Oyebh watches with a grin as if he already owned the world. He indoctrinates the new skia with his deep and raspy voice If we can gain an inch in their minds, then we can gain a mile in their hearts. Oyebh tells the skia that are with him, Now, go back to Chora. We have some new recruits to tend to.

All night, the earth spun, leaving Noohrak in forgotten darkness, seemingly without hope. But as with every flood, fire, and ferocity of earth, there is a tomorrow, and with it comes the sunrise. Precious light warming the bones of the forest, spreading slowly to the towns and creeping into the windows of every home. And fortunately for Noohrak, the morning brings something special. The morning brings a young woman, named Zoe. Zoe, always with her hair tied back into a ponytail with the bracelet her father had given her mother years before, is always ready for action. The brown locks of her hair hang to the middle of her neck in a ponytail.

She lived in Noohrak with her brother, Rabah, who, unbeknownst to her on this morning, had been taken during the siege. The day before, she had gone out to meet with a fur supplier in a neighboring town and was on her way back when she was caught by the dark and forced to make camp for the night, which proved fortunate.

Zoe pushes through the brush, breaking into the open just between the town and the forest. She comes to the gates of the town and yells out Hey, it’s me, Z, let me in. Not knowing of the fate that has fallen upon her town, she expected one of the usual gatekeepers to let her in, for they knew her well, but she was met with silence. Zoe, assuming that the gatekeeper had just fallen asleep, as they often do, went around the corner of the walls to some old boxes piled up for just such an occasion and climbed over a shorter section of the fortifications.

Her boots hit the ground, sending dust a few inches into the air, and before it even settles, she is stilled in confusion as she sees that the town is empty. Normally, as she walks through town, the hustle of life is a familiar sound, walking past storefronts and homes and hearing the owners and patrons shout greetings at her and joking with her. Eventually, Zoe comes to her home, where Rabah would, on any other day, be making a table or a chest, or tanning a deer hide to sell, or one of the many other trades that they had learned since their parents abandoned them. Today, as she walks through the town, she is the one shouting, shouting for anyone who would hear her to answer the questions she has. When she comes to her home, she opens the door, yelling for her brother,

This isn’t funny, Rabah!

The possible ponderancies of the situation at hand are scrolling through her mind. All of which are far less serious than the truth at hand.

Searching the workshop, she finds lukewarm coals in the furnace and a semi carved table leg in the vice. Her mind is now venturing to darker corners, fearing the worst for her brother.

What happened to you? she whispers while holding Rabah’s hammer that was hastily left on the workbench.

They’re gone. She hears from somewhere outside.

Jerking her head up so as to hear better, she waits for another sound. Her eyes widen with alertness. She then gets up to walk outside. Hello Zoe says anxiously as she pokes her head through the doorway.

Over here! shouts the mysterious, weak voice. It is muffled, but able to be understood.

After searching for a moment, Zoe flips the